


No Vegas Wedding for Us

by ThereBeWhalesHere



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Chahura, Canon Compliant, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Five Year Mission, Sentimental, The 'Marry Spock to Keep Him On The Enterprise' Trope, Which You Can Pull From My Cold Dead Hands, drunken proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-23 12:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14934444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereBeWhalesHere/pseuds/ThereBeWhalesHere
Summary: Jim Kirk has loved Spock and pined after him throughout the entirety of their five-year mission. He thought, hoped and dared to believe that today, the day of their wedding, would be the happiest day of his life. But there's just one problem. Well, two problems. Okay,maybethree. Spock doesn't love Jim in return, the marriage is a sham, and now — as their wedding guests grow impatient and Jim's hope fades — Spock has gone missing.Facing down a ticking clock, Starfleet's scrutiny, and profound misconceptions about each other's intentions, Jim and Spock had nine days to decide if the lie was worth it to keep Spock on the Enterprise. Now, it seems Spock has made that decision.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Star Trek Reverse Big Bang, everyone!! I had the absolute honor of collaborating with [Ness, aka Spockt](http://spockt.tumblr.com/), whose brilliant artwork served as inspiration for this story, and who created even MORE brilliant artwork to accompany it! Ness is a wonderful human being, and y'all should go reblog [her art](http://spockt.tumblr.com/post/174967322313/happy-june-17th-this-is-my-star-trek-reverse-big) immediately, please and thank you! I love you so much, Ness. It was an absolute delight to work with you. ❤ ❤ 
> 
> Special thanks to my awesome beta,[ Freyja](http://not-freyja.tumblr.com/), who managed to read this monster so quickly, and offered lovely feedback. ❤ Thank you, Freyja!
> 
> Final note, if y'all want to get in the mood for this fic, I did in fact make a playlist because that's just who I am as a person. You can find it [here!](https://open.spotify.com/user/queerrancy/playlist/41H3ctgxavFm0WU1mH4uJi?si=q5l-2u4NThmAI3uJVvTeWg)

Through the crack between the large double doors, the ceremony hall’s tall windows spill the silver light of twilight in a stripe along the corridor floor and over Jim’s feet. Muttered conversations echo off the high ceilings, the marriage of voices reverberating into a kind of shapeless cacophony, a white noise only barely louder than the blood rushing through Jim’s ears. 

Jim can make out a few words, if he tries.

“Where could they —”

“ — been sitting here for two hours.”

“— think everything is okay?”

Jim tugs at the tight collar of his formal uniform, feeling hot, confined, trapped. And when a hand lands on his shoulder, he whips around with a start. 

It’s Bones, back from his final search. It doesn’t look like he’s brought good news. There’s sympathy, maybe pity, in his eyes. Maybe Bones sees the last of Jim’s hope fading. Maybe he knows the black hole of fear and heartache in Jim’s chest is in danger of swallowing him. Maybe he’ll save his (admittedly deserved) self righteousness for later, for  _ years _ from now, when the pain stops carving its ugly truths on Jim’s heart and Jim comes to terms with what this means for him. For Spock. For their future. 

“Well?” Jim croaks. It’s all he can muster.

Bones shakes his head. “He’s gone, Jim. Uhura’s still looking, but …”

_ But he’s not coming _ . Bones doesn't have to tell him. Jim knows, really. He’s known from the moment he woke up this morning and pulled his formal uniform from the closet. He’s known from the second he stepped foot into Starfleet’s ceremonial hall earlier this evening, to take one last look at the flowers on the dais; to ensure the drapery on the tiered seats was clean and pressed; to prepare everything for the moment he would slip a ring onto Spock’s finger. He knew then, and he knows now.

Spock isn't coming. Spock won't marry him — not even for Spock’s own sake. And certainly not for Jim’s.

Jim nods stiffly, letting out a ragged breath, trying to hold himself together. Beyond those doors sits a room full of people, waiting for what Jim has foolishly been talking up as the surprise wedding of the century. And Jim has no idea what he’ll tell them. What can he possibly tell them?

“Bones,” Jim croaks, glancing toward the door. “If you could — can you —”

“Send them home?” Bones asks, but he doesn’t wait for the answer. “Sure, Jim. Of course. You might want to, ah, head out beforehand. Get back to your room before everyone leaves. I’ll be there soon.”

Jim nods, swallowing as Bones pats him once, twice on the shoulder, and moves past him toward the doors. They open with a creak and Bones slips through, leaving Jim alone in the wide corridor outside the ceremony hall, alone.

The walk back to Starfleet’s residential wing feels longer than it is, through headquarters’ front door, past the tall hedges in the courtyard, under the darkening gray sky of nightfall, thankfully at a time of day when few are likely to pass him along the narrow path. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he sees anyone. He doesn’t think he can handle any curious looks.

So he makes his silent, lonely way into the lobby of the residential building, into the lift, and up the 38 stories to his temporary quarters.  _ Their  _ temporary quarters. The room he was sharing with Spock.

When the lift opens to their suite, the dark, quiet room beyond greets him. Empty, as he knew it would be. Wherever Spock is, he’s not here. He’s not anywhere Jim will find him. Nor will Jim look. He knows now, how Spock feels. He doesn't need to hear him say it, nor could his heart take it if he did. 

Somehow, Jim manages to pull the shirt from his back, the slacks from his legs. Somehow, he manages to struggle into his earlier-discarded jeans and t-shirt, and collapse onto the narrow couch. He lays his hand on the armrest, where Spock has been laying his head these last few nights. A numb kind of paralysis spreads through his veins with each heartbeat, the kind of instinctual lack of feeling his brain forces when he needs to be strong. Maybe because there’s a part of him that knows it’s not entirely over yet. There will be questions to answer, and soon, Jim guesses.

He’s right, of course. It’s only a few minutes before the lift pings and the door slides open. Jim looks up to see Sarek, Spock’s father striding in, Bones and Jim’s mother Winona trailing him frantically.

“Ambassador, leave the kid alone,” Bones is saying. 

“ _ Both _ of you can leave,” Winona snaps. “I’d like to speak to my son privately.” 

Sarek doesn’t seem to hear them. He glances around just long enough to confirm that the room is otherwise empty, then turns his eyes on Jim like phaser beams set to kill. There’s something like anger carved in the wrinkles of his face. Behind him, Winona is gripping Sarek’s arm as if to pull him aside, and Bones looks like he’s ready to sock the man.

“What have you done?” Sarek asks, and Jim opens his mouth to respond, his vocal cords freezing in his throat.

_ I’ve lost him forever _ , he tries to say.  _ I’ve ruined the last chance I had to keep him with me. He’s gone. He doesn’t love me. He never loved me. He never will. How could I have been so stupid? _

But before he can say a word, Bones shoves past Sarek and steps between them, as if shielding Jim from Sarek’s quiet rage. “Jim didn’t do a damn thing,” he hisses. “It's your son who’s gone and run off. Can’t say I didn’t expect it, but that don’t make it right to leave a man at the altar.”

“You _ expected _ —” Sarek draws himself up to his full height, tucks his hands into the wide sleeves of his formal robes. “How could you have expected  _ this _ ?”

Jim stands as slowly as if his limbs are made of lead, puts a hand on Bones’ shoulder, moving him out of the way to get a clear look at the man who would have been his father-in-law.

“Sarek, Mom,” he says, his voice raw as a stripped wire, sparking with directionless energy. He wants to scream. He wants to  _ sob _ . But instead he speaks, as calm as he can. He’s spent five years facing crisis after crisis, and he’s maintained that calm. He has to be able to do it here, too. “I’m sorry. You have every right to be upset, I’m…” he pauses, takes a breath. “I think you should probably know the truth. Both of you.”

“The truth?” Winona asks, coming forward. She grips Jim’s arm, pats his shoulder. “Jimmy, what are you talking about?”

Jim looks from her to Sarek and back to Bones. 

“Jim,” Bones says, earnest and entreating. “This can wait.” 

“It cannot,” Sarek snaps. “I require an explanation for my son’s absence.”

Winona swallows, meets Jim’s eyes and gives him an encouraging nod. “Go on, Jimmy. What happened?”

“It’s —” Jim pauses, shakes off his mother, and moves back to the couch, sure his legs won’t hold him for much longer. “It’s my own damn fault,” he whispers.


	2. The Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **10 days earlier:**

**10 days earlier:**

  
It’s his own damn fault, Jim thinks, as the acid burn of despair churns in his gut. The words on the screen are starting to blur together, and he wonders how many times he’s read them now. It should be good news. It _should_ be great news.

It's his own damn fault.

 

_We have sent this proposal to Commander Spock as well, but felt fit to inform you in advance of his acceptance. Contact me with any questions._

_Starfleet Command, Admiral Komack_

 

The ‘proposal.’ Starfleet Command tends to call their mandates — their _orders_ — proposals, as if there’s a choice. No one can refuse an assignment like this. Nor _would_ anyone in his right mind. Captain of his own vessel, a brand new vessel — Spock will be ecstatic, won’t he? And Jim should be, too. He should be proud of his first officer, his friend.

Because it’s his own damn fault for giving Spock so many commendations, for nominating him for every honor, for ensuring that each mission report from the last _five years_ detailed Spock’s contributions and accomplishments so thoroughly. But it’s Spock’s fault for being so damn good at his job, too.

Spock deserves his own command. And even if there’s just one week left before they dock at Earth’s spaceport, one week left to enjoy being one half of the best command team in the fleet, Jim should be proud of him.

Jim leans back in his desk chair and taps the comm button by his computer, rubbing his forehead where a headache started to pound nearly an hour ago when the message first came through.

“Spock here,” Spock’s voice says from the speaker, as if he doesn’t know why Jim is calling him.

“Mister Spock, care to meet me in my quarters? There’s something I’d like to talk about.”

“Presently, Captain,” Spock replies, and the speaker shuts off. Jim stands, too restless to sit still, heading with sudden purpose to the food synthesizer. He taps in the code for whiskey — he’s been good lately — and watches as the lights on the machine blink.

Just as the compartment door opens to his beverage, the door to his quarters opens too.

“Mister Spock.” Jim turns at the swish of the door as Spock makes it over the threshold. He offers Spock a smile that he knows doesn’t make it to his eyes. Hell, it may not even make it to his lips. He feels numb all over, like he’s been soaking in ice water. But he does try. “Thanks for coming.”

The door closes behind Spock, who’s standing with his hands tucked behind his back and his feet shoulder-width apart, as though he’s preparing to be dressed down for some infraction. Jim’s grin grows a little more genuine.

“Of course, Captain,” Spock says formally, “May I ask why—”

“Playing coy doesn’t really suit you, Spock,” Jim says with a dismissive wave of his hand. He turns back to the synthesizer and taps in another code. Though his back is to Spock, he can almost feel those eyes boring into him.

“You were notified of the proposal.” It’s not a question.

“Sure was,” Jim says, “though you might as well call it what it is. A promotion. And a good one.” The compartment door opens once again to a chocolate martini. He knows Spock well enough to know that regular booze won’t get him to relax, but a healthy mix of booze and chocolate will hopefully have the same effect. He takes the delicate glass in hand and turns, making his way over to his friend.

“Here.”

Spock looks down at the drink as though it’s a lab experiment he hasn’t yet had the opportunity to study. “I do not believe I should partake.”

“Spock,” Jim says, holding it out a little farther. “In one week we’re back on Earth and you’re gonna be preparing to captain your own ship. This might be the last chance we get to celebrate your promotion. Indulge me.”

Perhaps Spock can tell by the tightness between Jim’s eyebrows that he doesn't feel like celebrating, or maybe he’s simply weighing the pros and cons of drinking chocolate around his commanding officer, but either way it takes him a moment to reach out and take the offered glass from Jim’s hand. Jim gives him a little nod and moves over to his desk chair, shoving the computer screen so it turns to the side and out of their way.

Spock takes the seat across from him, where he’s sat so many times — going over reports, playing chess, or just talking at the end of a long day. Jim doesn’t like the idea of someone else taking that seat. Nor does he know if anyone could.

He raises his glass anyway.

“To the soon-to-be Captain Spock,” Jim says. “A well deserved honor.”

Spock opens his mouth to speak before his eyes fall into his own glass, as if searching that murky liquid for words that seem to fail him. But the pause doesn't last long.

“I do not believe a celebration is appropriate,” he says, “as I do not wish to accept the promotion.”

Relief rushes over Jim for the briefest moment, but it smacks into a hard wall of reality before he lets it overtake him. Spock can’t _not_ accept the promotion. They both know that.

“You don't want it?” He asks anyway. “Where I’m standing, Spock, you don’t have much of a choice. It’s either accept, or ruin your chances at getting a promotion again.”

“Starfleet Command should have consulted me first. ” Spock’s words fall like a hammer on an anvil, and Jim leans back in surprise.

“Oh,” he says, at a bit of a loss, swirling his drink just to have something to do with his hands. “So you’ll turn them down?”

Spock’s lips tighten and he takes a drink of his martini — a long one. When he swallows and lowers the glass to the desk, he looks like he’s thinking. “To clarify my earlier statement,” he begins slowly. “I do not wish to be in command of my own ship _yet_. If I refuse the promotion, you are correct that I will likely not be offered one again for many years. Admiral Komack’s message was quite clear on that.”

“Why don’t you want your own ship?” Jim asks, though he’s afraid to. He doesn’t know why. Maybe a part of him wishes Spock’s reasons for staying might be the same as Jim’s reasons for _wanting_ him to stay. Some childish hope Jim thought he snuffed out when Spock and Uhura got back together, and reared its head once more when they broke up for good last year. He’s killed that hope by now, really. If there was a time for him and Spock to pursue whatever it is Jim feels — _felt_ — for him, that time has long-since passed.

“I believe …” Spock says, but he pauses. It looks to pain him, to try to force the words out. “I believe you and I make a good team,” he finally settles on, eyes meeting Jim’s, and that childish part of Jim’s heart glows once again. Spock is echoing a sentiment they have echoed many times before, and it gives Jim hope, even for a moment, that this might not be goodbye.

But it won’t be enough to tell Starfleet that. It won’t be enough to say that Spock isn’t ready for command (they know better, after all), and it won’t be enough to say that they simply aren’t ready to part.  
“Do you think I should accept?” Spock asks. There’s a question in there underneath the actual question — _do you want me to stay_ — and for a moment Jim is inordinately proud of himself for noticing. He _does_ know Spock well. Jim looks into his drink.

“I’ve gotten used to having you around,” he says, forcing indifference. “And I can't say I’m ready for you to have your own ship either. Not that my opinion matters,” he adds quickly.

He wants Spock to say that Jim’s opinion does matter. He wants Spock to say ‘I respect you,’ or ‘I care about you,’ but Jim knows these things are true, and they both know that Spock doesn't need to say them aloud.

A silence settles once again, and Jim downs the rest of his drink. After a moment’s hesitation, watching a stray drop of whiskey slide back down into the belly of the glass, he holds his hand out for Spock’s, forcing a smile. “Another?”

Spock glances down, then up to Jim’s eyes. “Please,” he says, and Jim stands, heading back to the synthesizer. Something feels awkward between them now, though he can’t put his finger on what.

“Do you remember last year,” Jim begins to fill the silence as he waits for their drinks to pour, the lights blinking on the synthesizer’s panel, “that mission on Thilles G59?” A laugh seems to bust out of his lungs, almost reluctantly, as though it isn’t sure it’s allowed in the seriousness of their conversation. But Jim turns around with a grin on his face to see Spock’s shoulders relaxing somewhat, his eyes warm on Jim’s own. “I would’ve been lost without you,” he continues. “Just think, if I’d been stuck in that jungle with anyone else, I’d be dead. And they’d be dead. And the Thillians would’ve gotten their hands on the rest of the crew while they were at it.”

Spock’s lips tic up slightly as Jim hands him the glass. Jim circles the desk to return to his own chair, immediately diving into his own drink. There’s something warm settling into his stomach, and he isn’t sure if it’s the whiskey or Spock’s near-smile.

“You can’t have forgotten the volcano,” Spock says gently. “I owed you at least one life.” He pauses, takes a long sip, and Jim thinks he imagines Spock’s fingers curling tighter around the glass. He lowers it back to the table, fingertips wet with condensation. “I believe I still do,” he finishes gently.

“You don’t owe me anything. I keep a tally, you know.” Jim taps his temple, rewarded for the joke by Spock’s eyes softening. “We’re about even when it comes to lives saved. Though, okay, I don’t count that one time on Risa. And even if I did, I'd be the one who owed you.”

Jim swears in that moment that Spock would laugh if he were more human. As it is, he simply ducks his head slightly, a touch of green tickling the tips of his ears.

It’s that expression that gets Jim every time. That almost-smile that could hint to affection if Jim squints, the blush that could be delight if Jim wants it hard enough. Jim wants to keep that look on Spock’s face. He doesn’t want to think about the future.

“Then there was that one mission — remember Argus IX?” Jim asks, putting off the inevitable for just a little longer.

Spock’s lips quirk. “I could hardly forget it,” he says, and Jim’s smile widens.

They talk for a time, reminiscing on those moments when relying on each other saved them — or when they’d wished the other had been around. One more drink turns into two. Then three. Jim knows they’re diverting from the topic at hand, but he’s not ready to hear Spock say that there are no options available to them. He’s not ready to say goodbye. So instead he brings up mission after mission.

When the world starts spinning, he leans back in his chair and sets his feet on the desk, hoping Spock doesn’t notice — though of course he will. It hardly matters, though. The chocolate makes Spock lean heavier against the back of his own seat, his eyes pleasantly half-lidded, warm, the ghost of a laugh at the corners of his lips after every dumb joke Jim makes.

Thanks to the buzz through Jim’s veins, Jim almost manages to push aside, for just a little while, why they’re even here. Why they’re talking, why Jim is bringing up every stray bit of history they share. It’s as if he wants to remind Spock, and himself, what they’re about to lose, even as he tries so hard to forget it.

But he can’t, really.

“It’s been a hell of a journey,” Jim says — or, rather, slurs — after a long while, removing his feet from where he’d propped them on the table and sitting straighter, though the room is definitely wobbling around him. “Five —” he blinks, the drink making it hard to think. Has it really been five years? “ _Five_ years, you and me. But I guess now you can make some new memories, eh Spock?”

“Perhaps,” Spock says, his voice low and slow as if he’s weighing each syllable before it leaves his lips. His eyes are drooping a little, his fingers lax around the stem of his martini glass. Jim’s only ever seen Spock intoxicated once in his life, and he has to admit it’s a surreal sensation. He watches Spock with the kind of hazy hyper-focus of inebriation, cataloging every detail. The green flush on Spock’s cheeks, the sad tilt to his eyebrows, the wrinkles of his uniform where it creases at his elbows, the silver of his rank stripes gleaming in the room’s dim light. He’s beautiful, in his own way. Jim’s thought that since the moment he saw him, though at the time he certainly wasn’t aware of the finer qualities of Spock’s personality. He’s always just been magnetic, drawing Jim in like gravity.

And Jim doesn’t know how he’ll function outside the comfort of Spock’s orbit.

“You don’t _have_ to leave, do you?” Jim asks suddenly, setting down his empty glass with a thunk. Spock looks up, startled by the sudden motion. “We have, ah,” Jim snaps his fingers, searching for the word. “We have _options_ , right? What if — okay, wait, I’ve got it.” Spock’s eyebrow shoots up, and Jim huffs. “Don’t give me that look! I have ideas sometimes, you know. How about I tell them that _I’m_ the one who doesn’t think you’re ready. Then you won’t be defying orders!”

“If I wish to advance someday, a con —” Spock stalls over the word, and casts an accusing look at his empty martini glass. “A con-dem-na-tion,” he continues intently, “like that from you would do more damage than my own refusal would.”

Jim’s shoulders fall, the smile fleeing his lips. “Right, yeah. ‘Course.” It sounded like a good idea as he said it, but, well, Spock is great at poking holes in his good ideas. That’s one reason Jim wants him around. Someone has to contradict him sometimes. And, well, Bones doesn’t count.

They are quiet again for a moment, and Jim swears he can _feel_ the long stretch of lonely years ahead opening a rift between them. Maybe it’s the whiskey, but where his mind might normally supply any number of solutions — reckless or ill-conceived as they may often be — he’s drawing a blank.

Spock sets down his empty glass, his posture tightening. “I’ve gone over every option,” he says, and though his voice is much the same as it ever is, Jim thinks he hears regret in there somewhere. “I cannot turn down the promotion. I cannot co-captain this — the _Enterprise_ —”  
  
“You already do,” Jim supplies with an attempt at a smile.  
  
“Not in rank,” Spock says softly, as if in apology for refusing to acknowledge Jim’s joke. “Short of a, erm,” he seems frustrated by his inability to form the million-dollar words he’s used to. “Short of a _marital union_ to secure my place on this ship, I see no alternatives. I must accept the promotion.”  
  
“A marital … _union_? Like, getting married?” Jim asks. The words take a moment to break through the three or four layers of alcohol.

“Indeed,” Spock says. “Regulation 113… 4?” he stops, closes his eyes for patience. Jim’s sure that’s not the right regulation, but Spock seems to decide that the number doesn’t matter. “By _regulation_ ,” he starts again, “Starfleet keeps married couples on the same ship, and allows them to request assignments. But Lieutenant Uhura and I parted more than one year ago, and she is quite … _happy_ with Christine. In any case, I would not want to marry her now.”

Jim doesn’t hear all of that, if he’s being honest with himself. As Spock speaks, a light of clarity is washing over Jim like dawn breaking, the feeling he gets when he solves a puzzle, figures out a problem, finds a way through an impossible situation. He lives for these moments, when he feels as though he can see everything, every moving part, and it all makes sense.

It all makes sense.

“Marry me.” The words stumble drunkenly from his lips, but he finds as he hears them that he _means_ them. “Marry me, Spock,” he says again, when Spock stares at him completely dumbfounded, the first time all night he has actually _looked_ as drunk as he probably is. “It’s perfect. We’d be newlyweds. They wouldn’t make you go! And you wouldn’t be defying orders, either. You could even —” He laughs, something full that starts in his belly. “Oh, god, you could even say you regret, oh, ‘being unable’ to take the post or whatever.” He leans back in his chair, though the movement makes everything feel a little wobbly. “I dunno why I didn’t think of it.”

“Because we are not romantically involved,” Spock says harshly, spine straightening.

“They don’t need to know that.”

“If such a lie were discovered —”

“You have the best poker face of anyone I’ve ever met — aside from me. We can do it.”

“Vulcans cannot lie, Jim.”

This forces Jim to slow his pace, though it pains him to take a step back when all he wants to do is barrell ahed. ‘Jim.’ Not ‘captain,’ but ‘Jim.’ Spock knows him too well. He knows that saying Jim’s name means he’s serious. He knows that saying Jim’s name means ‘listen to me,’ but Jim _is_ listening, and he hasn’t heard any argument good enough to dissuade him from their only way to stay together.

To stay together.

A light blinks on in Jim’s mind.

“Spock, let me tell you something about marriage,” Jim says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table as if he’s actually qualified to tell Spock _anything_ about marriage. “Marriage is just a — a _commitment_ . That two people wanna stay together. We — _listen_ —” he says pointedly, as Spock opens his mouth to speak. “ _We_ want to stay together. I mean, well, _you_ want to stay _here_. On the _Enterprise_.” _With me_ , his mind fills in, and some fresh ache clutches at his heart. “Isn’t that enough?”

For a moment, they’re looking into each other’s eyes. There’s still a fire in Spock’s, something like anger or frustration tightening his brow. But Spock breaks Jim’s gaze and swivels in his seat, placing a hand on the back of his chair to lift himself up. He sways slightly, holding himself steady.

“You understand,” Spock says softly, turning his back to Jim. He takes a breath, and begins again. “You understand that you could not be seen to be romantically involved with anyone else, as long as we are expected to pretend to be…” he trails off. God, he can’t even say ‘married.’

Jim scoffs, if only to cover an unreasonable twinge of offense. Spock knows him better than that. Fast and loose Jim Kirk is a man of the past. Sometimes, Jim wonders if he left him behind in Iowa, or in San Francisco. On Earth.

“C’mon, Spock,” he says, getting to his own feet, even when the floor tilts under him. He rests a hand on the desk to ground himself, and circles it cautiously. “When was the last time you saw me with anyone? I’m — shit, Spock, I’m married to the _Enterprise_ ,” he admits with a little laugh. “We both are. We might as well be married to each other, too.”

When Spock turns around, he’s closer than Jim realized. Jim can see every sunburst of dark and gold in Spock’s irises, every line of age branching, however subtly, from the corners of his eyes. “‘Might as well?’” Spock repeats on a breath, and there’s something hollow in his voice.

Jim’s smile fades as they stare at each other. “Do you … do you want me to get down on one knee?” he jokes somewhat helplessly.

Some tension fades from Spock’s face. “That is not necessary,” he says. Then, with a deep inhale, “I accept.”

A grin blooming on his lips, Jim grabs Spock’s shoulders out of pure, giddy reflex. For a moment, Spock looks startled, but Jim isn’t thinking about that right now. He’s thinking that all the despair and frustration he felt all night is gone now. Forever. And the word ‘forever’ is bouncing around his skull like a pinball. _Forever._

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/140945656@N04/41946923035/)

“So you’ll stay?”  he asks, because he _is_ drunk and he wants to be sure he understands.

“I will stay.”

 _With me_ , Jim’s mind completes once again. _Forever. With me. Forever. With me_.

“Then I propose a toast!” Jim says, likely far too loudly, releasing Spock to turn back to the table, to pick up his discarded glass. “ _One_ more drink! To our union.”

Spock’s shoulders fall slightly. “To our union,” he repeats, and Jim is far too high on the buzz and the delight to notice how quiet his voice is.

 

* * *

 

When Jim’s alarm sounds the next morning, it takes a good few minutes for him to gather the strength to lift his arm to shut it off, and another few minutes to recover from the pounding ache in his temples caused by the sound. Though, of course, he knows better. The ache is his own fault, like everything else.

Guilt. It comes over him all at once. Guilt and worry and a kind of helpless confusion. And when he sits up in bed and glances around, he doesn't immediately understand where those feelings are coming from.

Until he sees two empty glasses on his desk, one drained of whiskey, the other nearly full of a dark chocolate martini.


	3. The Plan

“Bones,” Jim says, not in greeting but in urgency as he lowers himself into the seat across from his friend. The mess hall is busy this close to alpha shift, but the bustle is loud enough Jim doesn't worry they'll be overheard, even as a kaleidoscope of uniforms passes at his periphery. “I need your help.”

Bones looks up from his gravy-slathered biscuits, fork in-hand, and his eyes widen at either the sleep-heavy bags under Jim’s eyes or the expression on his face. Jim can't be sure which.

“I’d say you do,” Bones says, “You're looking a little peaky. Feeling alright?” He reaches for his pocket as if about to pull out a medical scanner, but Jim stops him, a flat hand landing on the table.

“No,” he says. “Well, yes. But no. Listen I —” Well he might as well come out and say it. Not much time before he has to be on the bridge, and he does need Bones’ help. Sometimes he thinks the good doctor might as well be his conscience. Or at the very least his grudging babysitter. So the words fall out: “I asked Spock to marry me last night,” and Jim realizes too late that Bones may misunderstand the whole situation.

Bones seems to freeze from head to fingertips, the only movement the bare widening of his eyes. Jim expects — well, he doesn't know what to expect, but he certainly doesn't expect what actually comes out of his best friend's mouth.

“Oh, well,” Bones says with a sort of ill-suited casual surprise. “You’re moving a little fast but I can't say I'm all that shocked. Congrats, Jim. I suppose I’ll have to congratulate Spock, too. Guess this means I’m stuck with him?” He gives Jim a lopsided little smile, and Jim thinks he looks almost _proud_.

“No, what —? No,” Jim says quickly, wanting to wipe that pride off Bones’ face before he actually starts to feel it himself. “It’s not like that.”

Bones’ little smile fades, and now he just looks confused. “Jim, there aren’t many ways to interpret a marriage proposal.”

“Not _many_ ,” Jim concedes, “but, well, more than one.” White globs of gravy drip from the tines of Bones’ fork onto his tray, and Bones sets the fork down, finally, his whole attention now turned on Jim.

“Okay,” he says cautiously. “Care to tell me what in the blazes is going on?” Jim looks up, dejected, and Bones’ brows knit in concern. “Let me rephrase that. You’d _better_ tell me what in the blazes is going on.”

So Jim takes a deep breath, and he tells him. He tries to keep it brief — the promotion, the assignment, the certainty of separation, the drinks and the potentially irresponsible decision-making process that led to Jim’s less than romantic proposal. As Jim speaks, Bones’ expression grows more and more horrified.

“But it’s going to keep Spock on the ship with no repercussions,” Jim says in his own defense as he finishes. “And he’s technically the one who suggested it.” That’s only half-true, but he feels the need to justify the decision to Bones. Maybe Bones will blame Spock just as much as he’s obviously blaming Jim.

“He must’ve been three sheets to the goddamn wind,” Bones says, shoving his forgotten tray to the side.

“We were both a little wasted, I think,” Jim admits. “But, shit, Bones. What do I do now?”

“You call it off is what you do,” Bones says as if it’s obvious, but the very suggestion opens a pit of dread in Jim’s stomach. Spock would leave. Spock would be gone forever.

 _Forever_.

“But —”

“Now listen here, Jim,” Bones says, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “You can’t lie to Starfleet like this.” He holds up a hand when Jim opens his mouth, ready to say that he has lied to Starfleet plenty of times, but Bones knows that. “I mean, this is a years-long commitment, and I don’t think the two of you can keep it up. _Not to mention_ ,” he says, overriding Jim’s unvoiced protests again, “you’d be lying to yourself, and Spock, on top of it all.”

Jim straightens in his seat, and that pit in his gut deepens — a Navidson house of anxiety. He’s afraid to ask, but he does anyway. “What do you mean?”

“Only that you’ve been in love with Spock since Khan. Probably well before — if you’d ever admit to it. You might think you’re indestructible, but you ain’t. That act doesn’t work on me. How do you expect to get over Spock if you’re married to the bastard?”

“I _am_ over Spock,” Jim says, probably too loudly, but as he looks left to right and back again it doesn’t look as though anyone heard. He leans forward once again, hissing a loud whisper. “I didn’t even go after him when he and Uhura broke up.”

“But you haven’t gone after anyone since, and don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Jim’s eyes narrow. “Okay, fine, so I might still have _some_ feelings, but they’re _manageable_ , Bones. And anyway, that’s not the point,” he says. “If you can think of a better way to keep Spock on the _Enterprise_ —”

“Why don’t you ask Spock?” Bones suggests, but in a tone of voice that goes well past suggestion and into mandate. “Sober this time,” he adds pointedly.

Holding back a sigh, Jim swallows, nods. He knows he should, and he had already planned to, but he hoped Bones might have more advice for him than that. “But _you_ think I should call it off.”

“Damn straight I do,” Bones says, and he stands, suggesting to Jim it’s time to go, too. The mess hall is clearing out now, and it wouldn’t do to be late. “God help me, it’s your choice, Jim, but I’ve been trapped in a bad marriage, myself. And I wouldn’t recommend it to my worst enemy. You gotta know this can only go bad from here.”

Jim stands, rubbing his head. He took a hangover pill in his quarters, but the headache is back. Stress, probably. “It can’t _only_ go bad,” he protests weakly.

“What,” Bones says, and there’s a laugh in his voice that doesn’t make it to his scowling lips, “you think Spock’s gonna realize he’s in love with you _after_ you get married? That’s not the way it goes, Jim.”

Though Jim knows that well, he also knows that it’s Bones’ job to be the voice of cynicism. Jim can hope, can’t he? Isn’t he allowed?

Well, whether or not he’s allowed, he will. It's who he is.

“I should —” he says, gesturing to the door. He forgot to eat breakfast, but he’s really not hungry.

Bones waves him off. “Yeah, you should. Tell me how it goes.”

Jim offers a tight smile, turning and making his way out of the mess. He thinks he can feel Bones’ eyes on his back, but he doesn't turn around.

 

* * *

 

The lights buzz on in the briefing room as they enter, and Jim holds out his hand for Spock to pass in front of him. The corridors are busy, as everyone on alpha makes their way to the mess for lunch, but Jim is grateful he managed to snag Spock before he went off to do the same. The last few hours on the bridge have been quiet between them, and a little awkward — though Jim admits to himself that he may be projecting.   
  
It’s just that every time he looks at Spock, he remembers how happy he was last night, and how miserable he has been this morning. And now as Spock turns to face him and the door closes behind them and he sees that look of gentle expectancy in Spock’s eyes, he knows he’s about to become even _more_ miserable. If Spock wants to call it off, they’ll call it off. And Jim will have to adjust to life without Spock — which might be an easier prospect to consider if he had any idea how to _picture_ a life without Spock. They’ve always felt inevitable, the two of them.

“I assume you wish to discuss last night,” Spock says when Jim fails to speak. There’s no clue to Spock’s own feelings in his voice.

Jim crosses the room and leans against the table, looking down to collect himself before meeting Spock’s eyes once more. “Yeah, last night,” Jim says, pursing his lips before continuing. “Well, I know we had an idea, and I know it sounded good at the time, but —”

“Of course,” Spock interrupts, nodding and putting his hands at rest behind his back. “You were inebriated. It would be morally unsound to force you to follow through with the arrangement, and I understand if you wish to dismiss the idea entirely.”

Jim straightens. It’s as though Spock took Jim’s prepared speech from his lips and translated it into Spock-speak. “That’s what I was going to say to you, actually,” Jim says, regaining himself. “Do _you_ want to follow through?”

Spock looks away briefly, an uncharacteristic show of emotion that Jim can’t quite decipher. “I thought about the matter quite extensively this morning,” he says.

“After you sobered up,” Jim offers with a strained smile.

Spock nods, looking humorless. “And, while my initial concerns still stand, I see no other alternatives. It is the most logical option available to us, and your argument was quite persuasive. I do wish to stay here. If that is enough upon which to build a marriage — ”

“It is,” Jim jumps in, Bones’ advice fleeing his mind completely. He stands, makes his way closer to Spock, but not too close. “I’m — I’m glad you feel that way.”

Spock offers Jim a small smile, the formality and tension easing from his expression. “In truth,” he says, “our day-to-day lives will hardly change, should we wed.”

Jim finds himself smiling too, some traitorous glee causing his heart to pound. “We _are_ in each other’s pockets already, aren’t we?”

“Indeed, we are.” Spock is looking at him like that again, something warm in the dark shine of his eyes. Spock wants to go through with this. Spock wants to _marry_ him. And even if it’s for the wrong reasons, Jim can’t help nursing that glee, keeping it close and tight, even as he forces himself to remember: They are marrying each other so Spock can stay here. It’s not the ideal situation, but what better reason could there be?

 _Love_ , Jim’s mind whispers. He ignores it.

“Have you replied to Starfleet’s proposal yet?” Jim asks, distracting himself from his sentimental thoughts.

“No,” Spock replies. “I was not equipped to answer it last night, and I wished to speak to you today before I committed to either course of action.”

“Logical of you, Mister Spock,” Jim says with a little smile.

Spock’s lips curl slightly, though something heavy seems to linger in him. “Very little about this decision may be considered logical,” Spock admits, holding up a hand as Jim rushes to reassure him, “but it is necessary, and that is enough.”

Necessary. If Jim is being honest with himself, ‘necessary’ isn’t the word he’d prefer Spock use to describe their impending marriage, but if that’s the word that Spock needs to go through with it, then Jim will accept it. It’s better than the alternative.

Anything is better than the alternative.

“Alright,” Jim says, clapping his hands and pacing past Spock, the wheels already turning in his head. “So we need to call the admiralty today — after shift tonight. We’ll say, oh, maybe we decided to get married ages ago, and that we just hadn’t gotten around to announcing it.”

“They will no doubt question why we failed to disclose our romantic relationship through the proper channels.”

“And they’ll ‘no doubt’ get an earful from me about how we were so obvious we thought everyone already knew. They’ll buy that, and it’ll give us some credibility.” Jim turns and flashes a grin at Spock, who looks tense. “It’s okay, Spock. This will all work out. Once I put that ring on your finger, they can’t take you away.” His smile slips as those words slip from his lips and he clears his throat, glancing away. “And, well, you can divorce me the second you’re ready to have your own ship. No hard feelings.”

Though, as he says it, he recognizes a very hard feeling solidifying around his heart already. He tries to smile past it.

“Thank you, Jim,” Spock says. His spine straightens. “For your sacrifice, and your friendship.”

“Sacrifice?” Jim repeats, a little wrongfooted. “What —”

“The marriage. It is no doubt an inconvenience, but it will enable me to remain on this ship. I am grateful.”

As Jim’s smile fades, he considers that word, ‘sacrifice,’ and all its implications. This doesn’t feel much like a sacrifice. Looking into Spock’s warm brown eyes, it feels like an honor.

And, perhaps worst of all, it doesn't feel like a lie.

 

* * *

 

None of them seem surprised, except maybe Spock, who has been sitting beside Jim as Jim has recounted the fabricated tale of their starcrossed romance for the six admirals on the screen. Jim’s been watching them carefully, ready to mitigate any possible disasters, but he’s honestly shocked that none of them have yet questioned the relationship. Not a goddamn one. There was at least a small part of him that thought, maybe even hoped, that they might at least bat an eye. If only because to do otherwise would mean that he and Spock _are_ obvious. Or, rather, Jim is obvious about how he feels for Spock.

And if _they_ know, how is it possible that Spock doesn’t?

But Jim doesn’t let his surprise show on his face. He’s used to this, to bluffing (though Spock might call it lying). And he’s damn good at it when he needs to be.

“You should have disclosed your relationship earlier,” Admiral Nogura expresses expectedly, and the other admirals in their corners of the screen nod in agreement. Spock gives Jim a side-eyed look — his silent, dignified version of ‘I told you so.’

“This _is_ highly irregular, Captain,” Admiral Paris puts in, somewhat kinder. Jim gives her a little smile, trying to make it look both conspiratorial and disbelieving.

“Are you saying that none of you knew already?”

They all pause, glancing into the corners of their own screens as if waiting for someone to speak up. No one does.

“Listen, Kirk,” Komack finally says into the silence. “You know you should’ve been married weeks ago to make this valid. We _are_ already working on the reassignment of the _Enterprise_ crew, which includes your fiancé here.” He nods sharply in Spock’s direction.

“I know,” Jim says, trying to think as quickly as possible as all eyes settle expectantly on him. He had hoped, blindly, that they might not bring up such silly little things as deadlines. “But,” he says as inspiration hits, “well, you try holding the wedding of your dreams on a starship. I wanted the whole production — a venue, fresh flowers, a band. Unless you’re suggesting I let Commander Scott play the bagpipes and decorate a meeting room with the Denebian Snapping Flowers in our botany lab.”

All of the six admirals on the screen chuckle at that, and Jim nurses a warm glow of pride at his ability to deflect. He glances over to Spock to share in the moment, but Spock has been silent nearly the entire time, sitting straight as a rod, staring at the screen as if searching the admirals’ faces for the same evidence of suspicion that Jim has been looking for. He doesn’t seem to notice Jim's eyes on him.

“Alright, alright, we will extend the deadline,” Nogura says, “and give you two days after you’re back on Earth to get us all the paperwork.”

“Two days?” Jim’s smile falls.

A week to get to Earth, and two days to throw the wedding together. God what kind of hole has Jim dug for himself? But, no, this isn’t just on his shoulders. It's on Spock's too. what kind of hole has he dug for _them_?

“And no later than that,” Fitzpatrick says staunchly, the only words he’s said the entire call. “We’re already being too nice.”

Jim doesn’t much care for the tone of their voices, but he’s certainly performed feats more impossible than planning a wedding in nine days, and whatever trouble it causes will be worth it, in the end.

“It’s the least you can do for Earth’s saviors, right?” Jim asks with a false but hopefully convincing smile. He leans back in his chair, lays an arm over the back of it, and shoots a wink Spock’s way, though it’s more for show than for feeling.

“How many times are you going to use that excuse to get what you want?” Paris asks, but she’s smiling, too.

“I think I can use it as many times as we’ve saved Earth. How many times is that now, Spock?” He knows the answer; keeps a running list for those nights when the insecurity and the fear come creeping into his mind. But it always helps to hear Spock confirm his numbers.

“Twelve,” Spock supplies immediately, and Jim nods.

“Then I’ll use that excuse exactly twelve times,” Jim says, and most of the admirals are grinning at him again, they way they might look at a bothersome but earnest puppy.

Paris shakes her head in apparent defeat. “Oh, can we not be so stiff about this?” She asks her fellows. “They are clearly in love. And Captain Kirk is right; it is the least we can do.” She gestures to her screen, and Jim feels Spock stiffen beside him.

“Well, damn it, I guess congratulations are in order,” Komack says. “Any of us getting an invitation?”

“Admiral,” Jim says seriously, leaning forward with sudden gravitas. “I’m finally marrying the man I love.” Here he shoots a look at Spock, at the hard lines of his profile and the warm dark eyes that shift to meet Jim’s. For a moment, Jim realizes what he’s just said aloud, and how utterly natural it felt. But if his expression contains any of the affection he feels for the man beside him, then he supposes it will only help the lie. Turning back to the screen, he offers the admirals a wistful smile. “I’d invite the whole quadrant if I could.”

“And you, Spock?” Paris asks, turning her attention to Spock. Jim glances nervously at him, expecting him to look surprised, even anxious. But he’s impassible as ever. “Are you excited?”

“Excitement is a human emotion,” Spock protests, and Jim kicks him boot-to-boot under the table, giving him a pointed look when Spock meets his eyes. “But,” Spock amends quickly, “I am … gratified.”

“He’s such a romantic,” Jim puts in with a forced laugh. “Anyway, we do have a lot of wedding planning to do, if we’re all done here. Thank you all very much for your patience and understanding. We’ll submit the paperwork the second we get those rings on our fingers.”

“Alright. Nine days, Kirk,” Komack says. “No later.”

“You got it. Kirk out,” Jim says, and shuts off the screen. He waits for it to go completely black and waits for the red recording light to shut off before he slumps back in his seat, letting out a sigh of relief. “Great,” he says, as much to himself as to Spock. “Easy as pie. I wish Paris hadn't put you on the spot, though. I know you hate lying.” He rolls his head to look at Spock, hoping Spock isn’t upset about it, or about the swift kick Jim gave him.

“That was not a lie,” Spock says. “I _am_ gratified.” He is looking at Jim with such sincerity that Jim has to believe it, though that awful, selfish, dark part of him wishes that Spock was more than gratified. That awful, selfish, dark part of him wishes Spock _was_ excited. Human emotions be damned.

“I’m glad,” Jim says anyway. “But my big mouth got away from me again. Now they’re expecting a whole production. No Vegas wedding for us, Mister Spock. We have less than two weeks to organize an actual ceremony.”

He stands, feeling a tight ache in his back from sitting too long and holding his shoulders too tight. He cracks his spine as Spock remains seated.

“Will it be difficult?” Spock asks, looking concerned in his way. This whole thing must be causing a strain — Spock seldom looks concerned, even when he is.

But, though Jim is willing to lie to the admiralty, he can’t lie to Spock.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure it will be,” he says, then makes his way over to the food synthesizer. He skipped breakfast to talk to Bones and skipped lunch to talk to Spock, and by now his stomach is trying to eat itself. Jim hates to be hungry. “Can I get you anything?”

He glances back to Spock before keying in any codes, and Spock seems to vacillate for a moment, likely wondering if he should stay. It’s just a moment, though. Spock’s not prone to indecision.

“Tofu in redspice, please,” he says finally. “Thank you.”

Jim nods, and orders their meals, glad to have something to do with his hands, however briefly. Spock is quiet behind him.

“You can be as involved as you want,” Jim offers over his shoulder. “In the wedding planning, I mean. But I’m the one who got us into this, so if you don't want to, oh, go through flower arrangements with me, you don't have to.”

“I am willing to help,” Spock says, “but I confess I do not know where to start.”

“I guess you wouldn’t,” Jim says as the synthesizer door opens. “What are Vulcan weddings like?” He turns, curious. Years ago, when it looked like Uhura and Spock might tie the knot someday, Jim had asked Uhura. She simply told Jim that it wasn't her place to talk about it, which suggests to Jim that Spock isn’t about to tell him now.

“It is not important.”

Jim gives him a smile at the expected deflection, grabbing their plates and returning to the desk. He pulls his chair around, settling down across from Spock as he had last night. Was it really only the night before that they sat right here and made the biggest decision of their lives? The last 24 hours have been _unusually_ eventful, and Jim suddenly realizes why he feels so exhausted.

They’re quiet for a while as they tuck into their meals. Jim, twirling pasta round his fork, keeps thinking about the looks on the admirals’ faces. He can’t get them out of his mind. ‘Clearly in love,’ Paris said. It was hardly even clear to _Jim_ until today — at least he certainly didn't want to acknowledge it. How did the rest of them see it? How has Spock failed to? How can Jim keep it hidden for however long the lie will persist?

Does he even want to?

“Jim,” Spock says, and Jim looks up from his food with a start.

“Hmm?”

Spock purses his lips, sets down his own fork, and settles his hands in his lap. He looks more serious than usual, if that’s possible. “I know you must be quite ready to leave the topic behind us for the night,” he says, “but we may wish to discuss what we will tell our families. And the crew.”

Leaning back in his chair, Jim rubs his forehead. It’s hard to believe they haven’t talked about that yet. “Oh, you’re probably right,” Jim agrees, a little less than enthusiastically. He pushes aside his own worries, vowing internally to address them another day. Whether he loves Spock or not is almost inconsequential, isn’t it? Nothing his mind can conjure, even a lifetime of unrequited affections, can convince him not to marry Spock now if it means keeping Spock around. They might as well move forward with the thousand decisions yet to be made. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to blab too much about what exactly is going on,” Jim says, deciding as much as the words leave his lips. “But what do you think?”

“You mean to say that we should not reveal our deception to anyone?”

“Right,” Jim says, crossing his arms over his chest. Then he remembers Bones. Bones, who will no doubt throw a fit when he realizes how far this has already gone, when he realizes there’s no walking it back now. Bones, who knows everything already. The truth that this wedding is fake; and the truth that Jim wishes it wasn’t. “Well, maybe one or two people,” Jim amends quickly, “but only people we trust to keep it zipped.”

“I assume you have already told Doctor McCoy?”

Jim’s eyes widen slightly, but Spock just gives him an indulgent kind of look, as if Jim should have expected him to know.

With a huff of a laugh, Jim shakes his head. “You caught me. But Bones barely counts. He’ll keep it on lockdown.”

“I have no doubt,” Spock assures him. “I would personally like to tell Lieutenant Uhura the truth. She will not reveal our secret to anyone.”

“Of course,” Jim says, “that’s a good idea. If anyone on this ship is reliable, it’s her.”

Spock nods, hesitates a moment, then: “Will you tell your mother?”

Though there has been little time to think in the whirlwind of the last day, Jim has devoted a little thought to this already. He smiles, though it’s without humor. “And break her heart? I’m not sure I have the strength to confess to a sham marriage. She’s wanted me to find ‘the one’ my whole life.” He pauses, and an uncomfortable thought bursts into his mind as though it’s kicked down the door. He hadn’t considered Sarek until this very moment.

“Will you ... tell your dad?” he asks gently, knowing he’s treading on thin ice.

Spock pauses to absorb the question. “I must tell him the truth,” he says after a moment. “He will question the logic of our arrangement, but I do not believe he will interfere.” Spock pauses, letting out a little breath through his nose. “I may wait to speak with him until we are ready to announce the wedding more widely.”

“Yeah, no I get that,” Jim says, retrieving his fork to poke listlessly at his pasta. “But don’t take too long.” He puts his chin in his hand and smiles at Spock. “Your dear old dad will probably need an explanation before some illogical human puts a ring on his son’s finger.”

He kicks himself momentarily for allowing that phrase to leave his lips again, unsure why that image keeps returning to him — a simple band of gold around Spock’s graceful finger. Jim’s ring on Jim’s _husband’s_ hand. He shakes away the fantasy and continues before Spock can put in a word. “As for the crew, I say after you talk to Uhura we make an official announcement. Maybe just to bridge crew and senior officers, then let the information percolate from there.”

“Do you believe our intentions will be questioned?” Spock asks, because of course the possibility should be on their minds.

But Jim laughs, straightens and waves his hand. “The admirals didn’t question it, did they? And they’re the only other people who know about your promotion proposal. The crew’ll buy it hook line and sinker, I’m sure.” He grins with the easy confidence of experience, the simple surety that everything will work out, based entirely on the fact that it _has_ so far. And it will work out from here.

“Very well,” Spock says, picking up his own fork once again. “I will inform you when I have spoken to Nyota.”

Jim watches Spock for a moment, tucking into his tofu, and smiles as something warm washes over him like a wave. How many nights have they shared dinner like this together? And, now, how many more do they have to come? There’s such simple pleasure in Spock’s companionship. Though the next nine days are going to be hard, somehow he finds he’s not all that worried about it. Nine days of turmoil in exchange for _years_ like this. Together.

“So,” he asks gently, “barring all of this, how was your day?”

It’s a simple question. Domestic. Even silly, since they spent most of the day in each other’s company. But when Spock returns his eyes to Jim and Jim sees a small light in their depths, he smiles.   


* * *

 

When they make an official announcement to senior officers two days later on the observation deck (with plenty of champagne), their assembled crew and friends do exactly as Jim expected. They don’t question Jim and Spock’s motivations, or ask after the validity of their relationship.

They erupt, in fact, into cheers and congratulations, scooping Jim and Spock into hugs that Jim tries to reject, if only for Spock’s sake, raising glasses and talking over each other to give their well wishes to the ‘happy couple.’

Many offer to pitch in to help plan the last-minute wedding (Scotty volunteering to play the bagpipes after all; Sulu offering to show them the contact of a florist in San Francisco; and Nyota offering, after feigning surprise, to talk to Starfleet Command about using the grand ceremony hall as a venue).

Jim accepts nearly every bit of assistance — though he respectfully refuses Scotty’s — and thanks his lucky stars that no one on the crew seems curious as to why it has to be so soon. Only one week to plan a whole ceremony, but the _Enterprise_ crew is used to doing the impossible, and they’d probably be concerned if Jim did anything the easy way, even his own wedding.

The whole night, Spock graciously accepts the never-ending flow of congratulations, but Jim can’t help but notice the stiffening of his shoulders, the tightening of his eyes. At first Jim chalks it up to simple discomfort — Spock tends to avoid gatherings like this, and certainly tries to avoid the spotlight — but Spock’s typical wallflower silence seems eclipsed by a dark cloud as the night wears on.

Maybe the congratulations have thrown it all into sharp relief for Spock. Everyone now believes, from Jim’s mother and their most intimate friends to their newest officers, that Jim and Spock are in love. Hell, even _Jim_ convinces himself over the course of the night. There’s a delicious, tempting fantasy in this, in the way they stand together (arm-in-arm by Jim’s suggestion) saying goodbye to their friends as they leave for the evening. There’s a fantasy in their closeness, in their reason for being here, in the way Jim called Spock ‘babe’ earlier and no one questioned it.

But the fantasy broke when Spock winced at the word, however subtly. Jim hasn't tried out a term of endearment again all night.

No matter how much he wishes otherwise, and no matter how much Spock might protest the phrasing, Spock _is_ lying to these people they both care for. He’s lying to Starfleet. Jim can’t imagine how it must feel for someone so honest to have only three people in on the ploy — four, Jim supposes, including Sarek.

Bones is the very last guest to go after the evening has come to a close and their other friends have wandered back to their quarters. He claps Jim on the shoulder, gives a look to Spock and shakes his head. “You know I think this is a terrible idea, right?” he asks them both, though he's already given them an earful.

“Sure do,” Jim says. “But someone on this ship’s gotta marry him. Would you rather do it yourself?”

Beside him, Spock shifts uncomfortably on his feet, just as Bones’ eyes widen in horror. “I sure as hell wouldn’t,” Bones says, then looks to Spock. “But I wouldn’t wanna marry this one either,” he says, nodding at Jim. “The both of you got your work cut out.”

“Good night, Bones,” Jim says pointedly, and Bones gives him a wry smile.

“Alright, I can take a hint. Night,” he says, waving and walking out the door. It slides shut behind him, blocking out the white light of the hall like an eclipse. The observation deck lies dark but for the glow of starlight streaking by outside the wide windows. Jim sighs, and allows his shoulders to relax. He didn't know how tense he was until everyone left.

Though beside him, staring somewhat numbly at the door, Spock is the picture of tension himself. He seems to be thinking, hard, and it looks like he’s not happy with the contents of his own thoughts.

Gently, Jim touches Spock’s elbow, just two fingers pinching the tiniest stretch of fabric on his sleeve. “Spock?” he asks, and Spock turns to him. He looks tired. “Are you alright?”

Spock’s shoulders straighten on reflex, as though he realizes he let his guard down. “Of course,” he says, but Jim doesn’t entirely buy it.

But if Spock doesn’t want to talk, he isn’t going to force it.

“Alright, well.” Jim scratches his head, looks around the room, which their friends did a pretty good job cleaning up, though a couple champagne corks have rolled under the benches facing the stars. “I guess we should both get to bed, then. It’s going to be a long few days.”

He shoots Spock a brief smile and begins to move toward the door, but Spock stops him — a hand on his elbow, two fingers pinching his sleeve, just as Jim touched him moments ago.

“I — If you would like to join me, Captain,” he says, Jim’s title having much the same effect on Jim that ‘babe’ had on Spock earlier, “I thought I might, as you would say, clear my mind here. For a moment.”

Jim doesn’t quite know what to make of the offer, but he has never turned down an opportunity to spend more time with Spock.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. Let’s, ah, sit down for a while, then.”

Spock gives him a look of apparent relief, and moves toward the bench by the window. He settles there before Jim can even force himself to follow, distracted as he is. Spock is blue in the starlight, all pale and dark and streaks of white flashing over him as they speed through space. It’s only when he turns to Jim, and looks at him expectantly, that Jim remembers how to make his feet move.

With a dismissive smile, he moves to join his friend, settling down at Spock’s side. And — though Jim knows how dangerous it is to touch a telepath when his own thoughts are so tumultuous — he presses their knees together gently.

Spock may not feel the way Jim feels about him, but he doesn’t pull away, either.

For a moment, they stare at the stars in silence, Jim assuming that’s what Spock wants. But, it seems, Spock does want to talk after all.

“Does it bother you?” Spock asks. “Pretending, I mean to say.” He, of course, doesn’t say ‘lying,’ which would be the more applicable term.

Jim considers the question, watching the hypnotic movement of the stars and hoping to find some answers in them. It does bother him, but not for the reasons Spock may think, and certainly not enough to make him reconsider his choice. “Not when I think about what’s at stake,” Jim admits. “We have to do what we have to do, right?” Jim leans his elbows on his knees, nudging Spock with his shoulder.

Hesitating for a moment, Spock looks down. “It appears to be easy for you,” he says gently.

Jim risks a glance at Spock out the corner of his eye. Of course pretending is easy in this situation; he’s pretending to be something he wishes he was. He did that for three years at the Academy. Hell, he does that every day of his life.

“I do this all the time,” Jim says with a dismissive gesture, “well, not _this_ in particular, but the lying — the bluffing. This is nothing to me.” Spock turns to him, and it looks as though he wants to speak, something pained in his expression. With a flash of pity, Jim sits up, pats Spock gingerly on the back. “Hey,” he says, “you'll get used to it, I promise. We've got years to perfect the act. And when it gets to be too much, or when you're ready,” he pauses at the thought, but keeps an encouraging smile in place, “then we can call it quits. Would you feel better if I kept the divorce papers handy?”

He's joking, but Spock doesn’t seem to find the idea funny. He’s staring at Jim, and Jim can’t quite make out why.

“No,” he finally says, turning back toward the window. “I do not believe that will help.”

“It’s going to be okay, Spock,” Jim says, assuring himself as much as his reluctant fiancé. “I’ll be a good husband.” _I’ll be wonderful if you’ll keep me,_ he thinks frantically, though he tries not to let it show on his face. _I’ll be the best husband you can ask for. I’ll bring you breakfast in bed and ask about your day. I’ll learn how to navigate your family and teach you how to deal with mine. I’ll be there when you need to talk about Vulcan or about your mom. And even if you don’t love me I’ll love you so much you’ll drown in it, and I’ll be everything that you want me to be and —_

Spock takes a long breath. “As I will endeavor to be. Similarly, if this arrangement is ever undesirable to you, I request that you tell me.”

Jim knows it won’t ever be undesirable to him. He’ll always want Spock around. “I admit,” he says instead of voicing those vulnerable thoughts, “it’s not the most ideal situation. But we’ll make it work, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Spock says, though there is something heavy in his voice. “We tend to manage unideal situations well.”

“Best team in the fleet,” Jim reminds him with a smile, elbowing him lightly. But Spock is still staring out the window, his gaze as far away as the great expanse of the universe outside.

Jim wonders if Spock’s seeing something in those stars that Jim can’t.


	4. The Problem

They dock at Earth’s spaceport five days later, five frantic days of wedding planning, preparing the ship for its refit, and fielding calls from Jim’s mother about all the distant relatives he should invite. And though Jim’s exhausted by the time he and the senior crew board the final shuttle back to Earth, he welcomes the excited questions from his friends, the reminder that in two days he’ll be marrying the man he loves. Whether or not the man he loves loves him in return.

If Spock is quiet the entire time, holding himself tight in the seat at Jim’s side, Jim forces himself not to worry about it. If Uhura keeps shooting Jim suspicious glances as Jim rattles on about the caterers for a quarter of an hour, Jim forces himself not to notice it. And if Bones’ customary scowl turns more and more concerned as the shuttle flies its way down to Earth, Jim concentrates, instead, on the wedding. The planning. 

The fantasy.

When the shuttle lands at the station at Starfleet headquarters, everyone lets out a sigh of relief — none more enthusiastically than Bones, who felt fit to complain loudly earlier that day about how long it has been since he’s stepped foot on solid ground.

They all stand, stretch, and those in front make their way out the shuttle door as conversations break off into smaller groups. Jim’s listening to Bones and Scotty, making plans to meet up for drinks with Jaylah later, as Keenser bubbles and gurgles from Scotty’s other side, so Jim doesn’t notice right away when Spock slips out the shuttle before him.

When he turns around to see his fiancé gone, he taps Bones on the shoulder and nods out the door. Taking the hint, Bones says a hurried goodbye to Scotty, and follows Jim into the station. 

The world outside is bustling, people moving in untidy rows as they exit their own shuttles or scramble into empty ones. Families wait by the wide double doors for arrivals; voices echo loudly through the massive foyer; and outside the station’s tall windows a gray glow of sun through storm clouds seems to paint everything silver. 

Everyone from their own shuttle shouts their goodbyes, running off to appointments, or to meet their families. Jim glances around and catches sight of Spock and Uhura tucked off to the side of their shuttle, out of the way of the rushing crowds. Christine is hanging back and playing with her communicator, as if waiting.

Jim can’t hear what they’re saying, but Uhura looks concerned, and Spock isn’t looking directly at her. She touches his arm gently, offers him a sad smile, and he says something that looks like ‘thank you.’

Bones slaps Jim on the back and gestures forward, toward the exit. “We going or what?” he asks, but Jim’s watching Uhura walking away now, holding out her hand for Christine to take. The nurse smiles and tugs Uhura along toward the exit as Jim’s eyes shift back to Spock, who looks as though he’s caught Jim staring.

Plastering a quick smile onto his face, Jim waves. “Ready, babe?” he shouts.

Spock seems to suppress a sigh as he approaches, his shoulders tight. When he draws level with them, he speaks barely louder than the noise echoing through the station. “As Dr. McCoy is aware of our ruse,” he says,” I see no need for you to refer to me in such a way.” Then, he moves forward, and Jim trades a look with Bones before rushing after him. 

“Wait, Spock,” he says as he catches up, taking Spock briefly by the elbow to slow him. “Is everything okay?”

He draws level as Spock slows his pace to match. “Perfectly adequate, Captain,” Spock responds, as Bones moves to join their small group in the crowd spilling out the doors and into the cool California afternoon. The wind is wet and muggy as it brushes the leaves of the courtyard’s eucalyptus trees, and the tall, spired buildings of Starfleet glint gray in the sunlight, windows dotted with the dew of an earlier rain.

“‘Adequate,’” Bones echoes gruffly. “Can’t imagine how anything’s really ‘adequate’ right about now. Y’all got two days before you get hitched.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Bones,” Jim says wryly as the three of them make their way down the stairs toward the crowded path to headquarters. “It’s not like we can forget it. We’ve still got the venue to walk through, the Rabbi to arrange —”

“And you’re sure you want to do it this way?” Bones asks, “I know a guy in Vegas — name’s Al. Runs one of those quickie chapels. I bet he’d get you married in an afternoon.”

Jim knows the look of confused exasperation Spock is wearing before he even glances over to see it, and he smiles at the predictability of his friends’ back-and-forth. “Doctor,” Spock says, “may I ask —”

“How I know him?” Bones finishes for him. “Absolutely not. You know what they say: what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Especially if you don’t remember most of it.”

Jim laughs, the sound nearly lost in a clap of thunder rolling from somewhere out over the ocean. “A quick wedding in Vegas does sound tempting right about now,” he says, “but we promised the admirals a production, so this has to be big.”

Bones looks skeptical, and he nods to Spock. “Well seeing as this one looks like he’s about ready to run off, you might want to put a ring on his finger sooner rather than later — if you’re sure you’re gonna go through with it.”

Trying not to let the surprise show on his face, Jim slows down a little bit, and he turns to Spock at his other side, who suddenly looks even more tense than he did on the shuttle, if possible. “Spock,” Jim begins, “are you getting cold feet?”

“I am not,” Spock says tersely, “and I would thank the doctor not to guess at the nature of my thoughts.”

“Well I’d thank  _ you _ to act like you give a damn,” Bones snaps, the atmosphere between them shifting almost immediately, “‘stead of sulking while Jim does all the hard work.”

Jim stops in the middle of the path, leveling his hands at both of them. “What’s gotten into you two?” he asks, though it comes out harder than he means it to. “Bones, Spock is more than capable of—”

“Talking about his feelings?” Bones interrupts with a sting of irony. He gestures at Spock, whose chin is held high in defiance. “You ain’t gonna get the truth out of him.”

“I have been entirely honest,” Spock bites back, “and I would inform Jim immediately, were I to reconsider our arrangement.”

“I thought Vulcans couldn’t lie,” Bones says, and Jim steps in, literally, coming between them.

“Bones—”

“I’m sorry, Jim,” Bones says, obviously not sorry, “but someone’s going to get hurt, and I just don’t think I can stand here and watch it anymore. It ain’t fair when one of you actually wants to get married and the other couldn’t care less.” 

The statement lands like a bass drum, seeming to echo around them as travelers move obliviously past. Jim feels his eyes widen, a look of horror he can only hide by turning away from Spock. “Bones,” he hisses in warning, a chord of fear stricken in him at the thought that Spock might decipher Bones’ meaning. How could Bones break his trust like that to  _ prove a point _ ? If Spock realized now how Jim felt about him … 

“I will see you in our quarters, Jim,” Spock says quietly, and Jim turns back to him just in time to see something dejected in Spock’s own expression before he turns away. Spock walks off toward headquarters’ main residential building, his arms stiff at his sides.

Jim just stands there in stunned silence for a moment before Bones grips his shoulder. “Sorry, Jim,” he says. “I shouldn’t have tested him.”

Shaking him off, Jim wheels around to face him, but his anger drains away almost immediately at the look of pity in Bones’ expression. “It’s... fine,” Jim says. He rubs his forehead, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t think he picked up on it. Right?”

The indecision in his voice must get to Bones, because Bones’ whole countenance softens. “Naw,” he says, waving it away as if it doesn’t matter. “I think he’s about as dense as a hunk of osmium. Least when it comes to anything that matters.”

Jim turns back to where Spock disappeared down the winding concrete walkway, engulfed now by headquarters’ afternoon crowds and the hedges rising like the walls of a maze ahead. 

“Can’t believe you’re sharing a room now,” Bones says into the silence, almost to himself. 

“It was assigned,” Jim mutters without feeling. “We’re engaged, remember?”

 

* * *

 

Jim avoids their shared quarters for the rest of the afternoon, partly because he does need to check in with Command and go over plans for the _Enterprise_ ’s refit, and partly because he doesn’t quite want to face Spock after the argument, even if it was more Bones’ argument than Jim’s.

The meeting goes as well as it can. The engineers in charge of the refit all agree to report every development to Scotty, and Jim’s generally happy with what they have in store. One plucky engineer with a tight ponytail and a glint in her eyes suggests knocking down the wall between the captain’s quarters and those of his first officer. Though Jim laughs with the rest of them, he also knows they’ll have to share a room eventually to keep the ruse going. Might as well make it a big one. 

So he tells them to do as they (or rather, Scotty) wish, and whatever’s easiest, and leaves them to work. Whether or not they get assigned another five-year mission, the  _ Enterprise _ will be back in space in just a few short months, and he wants his ship ready. 

After his meeting, he walks the familiar grounds for a while between headquarters and Starfleet Academy, breathing in the scent of San Francisco rain and the cool ocean air, before tracking Bones down at one of the cocktail bars near the Academy campus. Sharing a drink with Scotty, Jaylah and Keenser (who it seems have all been there since they arrived) Bones invites Jim to stay a while, and mumbles something semi-drunkenly about hot-tempered Vulcans and the benefits of alone time.

But as the afternoon wears into evening, Jim knows he can’t avoid Spock forever, nor does he want to. He wants to talk to Spock, to get to the root of his anger and discomfort, and do whatever he can to mitigate it.

And if it means calling off the wedding, he needs to prepare for that, even if the thought makes his heart hollow. If Bones is right, and if Spock  _ is _ ready to run off at any moment, a shotgun wedding in Vegas isn’t the answer. The answer is to end this before it begins, no matter how much it hurts.

Their assigned quarters are in Starfleet’s residential building, a massive spire of cramped units where officers usually stay while awaiting assignment or taking a few weeks of leave. Jim rides the lift up 38 floors to get to their suite, and scans his hand to unlock the door. 

When the lift doors open to a darkened room beyond, he’s hit immediately by the scent of Spock’s familiar meditation candles, the chai-like aroma that clings to Spock’s clothes whether he realizes it or not, and has for the five years Jim has known him. Somewhere in his mind, Jim associates that smell with serenity. 

As Jim walks in and glances around, he finds Spock seated cross-legged in the corner of the room opposite the bed (the only bed, laden with their bags delivered from the  _ Enterprise _ ), away from the cramped confluence of the couch and desk. He’s set up a few candles nearby, and their glow glints off the smooth sheen of his hair, the high angles of his cheeks. He’s wearing one of his meditation robes, the shadowed fabric making him appear one strange, solid figure in the darkness.

Jim stands there by the doorway for far too long, watching him and breathing in that smell. It feels as though he has intruded on something important, which he likely has. But he has interrupted Spock in his meditation before, and Spock has always been gracious about it. He wonders if he will be now, or if this will be the last time he smells those candles and sees Spock wreathed in black and warmth — intimate in his vulnerability. 

As Jim watches, unable to force his feet to move, Spock blinks his eyes open and focuses on Jim’s face.

Jim offers him a small smile, almost bashful. Hesitant.

“Jim,” Spock begins, his voice a little rough from hours of disuse, “I apologize for my earlier behavior.” He sounds calm now, gentler than he was as he bit and barked at Bones. Jim hadn’t expected him to say sorry right out of the gate.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Jim says, moving forward slightly, though refraining from getting too close to Spock’s personal space. “This isn’t comfortable for anyone, but least of all you.”

Spock’s rises to his feet in one fluid motion and walks toward Jim, meeting him in the middle of the room. “I wish to assure you,” Spock says, “that I have not had second thoughts, as Dr. McCoy suggested.”

“You haven’t?” Jim asks. “It’s just, before —”

Spock holds up hand to silence Jim, then tucks his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe. “I  _ am _ uncomfortable, as you say. This does not come naturally to me. But I still believe we should move forward.”

“Why?” Jim asks, though he surprises himself by doing so. Still, he barrels ahead, as he tends to do. “I know you want to stay on the ship, but Spock if the next few years are going to be like this morning —”

“They will not,” Spock says, though there’s something lacking in the strength of his speech. “I will become accustomed to the stares, the questions — people  _ mistaking _ you and I for something we are not.”

The way he speaks it’s as though he’s stepping carefully over his words, avoiding every perceived pitfall. But Jim feels his heart sinking anyway.

“Oh,” Jim says, and he turns, scratching his head and making his way toward the couch. Of course Spock wouldn’t want to be mistaken for Jim’s partner. It hasn’t occurred to him until now that Spock might consider a relationship with him to be embarrassing. Perhaps it should have. 

When he settles on the couch and dares to look at Spock again, silhouetted by the yellow flicker of the candles, he can’t tell what Spock’s thinking by the shadows of his eyes.

“Have I said something to upset you?” Spock asks.

“Well,” Jim says, unable to stop himself, “I don’t know. Would it upset you if I said I didn’t want people mistaking me for _ your  _ fiancé? I know I’m not exactly a catch, but damn, Spock, I figured of all the problems we might have here, you being embarrassed of me wouldn’t be one of them.”

He sounds like a child. He knows he sounds like a child, but he’s hurt and he can’t put his finger on why. Or, rather, he can, and it’s something he can’t tell Spock to save his life. 

“That was not — you have misinterpreted my meaning.”

“Then reinterpret it for me.” 

“I trust you understand the difficulty I have in lying. I simply mean to say that it will pass, as will all else.”

“‘All else?’”

Spock’s silhouette straightens in the candlelight, and Spock moves forward, coming to sit beside him on the couch. “Jim,” he says gently, and to Jim’s complete and utter shock, he places a hand on Jim’s knee.

Jim looks down, focused on nothing but Spock’s pale fingers against the black of his slacks. He thinks he might stop breathing for a minute, but his entire awareness has narrowed onto that slight contact. All Spock said was Jim’s name, all he did was touch him gently, and it was enough to make the anger evaporate.

Jim finds it in himself to look back to Spock after a moment, forcing his breath to begin working once more. “I’m sorry,” he says without really meaning to, though it’s true. “It’s been, ah, stressful, hasn't it? I think we both just need to wind down.”

Spock removes his hand, and Jim feels the absence of that touch from somewhere deep in his chest. 

“Indeed,” Spock says. He’s looking at Jim, the reflection of the candlelight dancing in his eyes. “I do still wish to marry you, Jim. Please understand that.”

The sincerity of his voice causes Jim’s breath to freeze in his lungs, and he knows that this is the moment he would kiss Spock, if he could. He wants to place a hand on the curve of Spock’s cheek, bring their lips together and breathe Spock’s breath, assure himself that Spock is here and his, and will be here and his forever.

_ Forever. _

And maybe it’s a testament to how good Jim is at lying to himself. Because this moment, staring into Spock’s eyes, is the first time he realizes that Bones was right from the very beginning. Jim  _ isn’t _ just lying to Starfleet. God, he’s lying to  _ Spock. _ He’s pretending not to care when he cares so much it’s eating him alive. Jim’s misplaced affection wasn't part of their agreement. Jim hiding how he felt wasn’t part of their agreement.

He stands abruptly, walks a few steps away, and says “lights” to the room. They glare on, blinding for a moment, drowning out the warm glow of the candles. He needs to remember why they’re here. He needs to remember what’s happening. He needs to remember why Spock is marrying him, and to reframe his own reasons for marrying Spock. This isn’t about love. It was  _ never _ about love until Jim made it that way. He needs to push his feelings aside, as he promised himself he could. 

“Well, I'm glad you’re still on board,” he says, turning back to Spock. He knows he’s wearing a smile, but he can’t quite tell where it came from, or whether it looks as twisted as it feels. “I don’t think I could run my ship without you.”

Spock’s spine straightens, and when he speaks he sounds quiet in contrast to Jim’s forced cheer. “While that is an obvious hyperbole, I appreciate the sentiment.”

Jim glances around the room just to have something to look at other than the familiar and comforting lines of Spock’s face. “So,” he says, knowing how obvious the change in subject may be, but deciding it’s safer to move on. “What are we going to do about this bed? Draw straws for the couch?” He laughs (though it sounds disingenuous) and shines his best captainly smile on Spock.

There may be disappointment in the lines at the corners of Spock’s lips, but Jim doesn’t trust himself to believe it. The disappointment, he knows, is his own. And he needs to ignore it the best he can if he’s determined to make this work.

And he is  _ determined _ to make this work.

 

* * *

 

Jim stands close to Spock in the busy foyer of the train station, shifting impatiently on his feet. He tells himself the proximity is for Spock’s sake, so he can play interference and ensure that no one else gets too close — Spock hates crowds — but it is, in part, for his own sake, too.

Today might very well be the most nerve-wracking day of his life, and he reminds himself he’s helped save Earth twelve times. Luckily, keeping busy has always helped with his nerves, and seeing as this is the day before his wedding, he knows he’ll be plenty busy.

“Please do not be anxious,” Spock says softly, and Jim glances to him with an admittedly anxious smile.

“I’m not,” he lies. “It’s just that I haven’t seen mom in years, and combine that with seeing your dad again…” he trails off, shrugging. Spock knows very well why Sarek may have less than positive feelings toward Jim. The first time they’d met, Jim had baited Spock into violence by recalling the memory of Sarek’s recently deceased wife. Not exactly the best foot to start on.

“My father has respect for you,” Spock assures him, and Jim is grateful that he doesn’t add ‘now’ to that sentence. Jim’s sure Sarek didn’t have much respect for him before.

Jim laughs a little, turns his eyes toward the train up on the platform that just pulled in. Winona will be on that one. Sarek will arrive in a few hours at the shuttle station at headquarters, which at least gives Jim time to prepare for him. 

“And he’s really okay with this?” Jim asks as people start pouring out of the train, making their way toward the escalators down to where he and Spock stand in a sea of others awaiting arrivals. “Us getting married, I mean.”

“Yes. He has told me it is a logical enough arrangement.” 

“‘Logical enough,’” Jim echoes, giving Spock a wide smile. “I guess that’s better than it could be. Though I wish you’d tell me what logic acrobatics you did on him to make him think a fake marriage was a good idea. To be honest, I never expected him to approve.”

“Nor did I,” Spock concedes, but he doesn’t have time to say much else. Halfway up the escalator in the bright shine of the station lights, a hand shoots into the air and waves frantically. 

“Jim!” Winona calls, or Jim assumes she does based on the movement of her lips, as the sound can’t reach them over the rushed voices of passengers and the echoing announcements over the PA. 

He waves back, smiling as Winona elbows her way down the escalator, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder as she pushes past disgruntled travelers. An Andorian levels their antennae aggressively at her, and she almost smacks a Tellarite in the nose with her bag, but she manages to make it down the escalator and onto the foyer floor without injury, rushing toward them.

Knowing what’s coming, Jim simply takes a step away from Spock, holds open his arms, and steels himself for the body that comes barrelling into him, knocking the breath right out of his lungs.

“Jim!” Winona says, wrapping her arms around his back and squeezing him with all the strength of someone who’s been running her own farm for the last twenty years. He can feel the decades of digging and woodworking and harvesting in her hug, and he swears he can smell Iowa wheat in her hair. His nervous smile fades into something more genuine as he returns the embrace.

“Hey, mom,” he says, taking her by the shoulders to pull her away. “Good trip?”

“Too long,” she complains, “I just couldn’t wait to get here. If you ever get married again, god forbid, give your mom a little more notice, okay?” 

“Okay,” he promises, then holds an arm out to Spock, placing his hand gently and hopefully unobtrusively on Spock’s shoulder. “Mom, this is —”

“Spock,” she says on a breath. “Of course, I recognize you from all those news stories. You’re just as handsome in person as I thought you would be. I can’t believe we’ve never met until now.”

Jim nearly busts up laughing at the anxious look on Spock’s face. He must be eating crow after telling  _ Jim _ not to be nervous. 

“I — Thank you,” Spock says uncertainly. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” Winona says, then with a hint of trepidation: “May I please hug you too? I know, Vulcan and all, but you’re marrying my boy and I’m so grateful I could cry.”

“Mom,” Jim whines, “you make it sound like he’s saving me from a life of spinsterhood.” 

“Well he is,” she argues, punching Jim good-naturedly on the arm. “‘Married to his ship,’ he always says. Can you believe it? So what do you say, Spock? Please?”

Spock nods, as though regretting agreeing to the hug before it even happens. Beaming, Winona hands Jim her bag and gives Spock a brief and much less constricting embrace. 

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she says when she pulls away. “I promise I won’t ask your dad for a hug when I meet him.”

Spock’s shoulders fall in apparent relief. “I am grateful to hear it,” he says, and Winona laughs.

“Speaking of, when do I meet the man? We’re going to be related tomorrow, so I’d better have a chance to get to know him today.”

“He will be arriving by shuttle later this afternoon,” Spock says. “After the venue walkthrough, unfortunately, but I do not think he cares much for flower arrangements and drapery.”

“Nor do I, if I’m being honest,” Winona puts in with a playful elbow into Jim’s side. “You two could get married in a trashcan for all I care, so long as you’re happy.”

“We are,” Jim says, though happiness tends to be relative in this situation. He’s becoming used to the daily rollercoaster of elation at the idea of marrying Spock, followed as swiftly by despair at the idea of marrying Spock for the wrong reasons.

Winona looks to Spock, as if for confirmation. Jim expects another ‘happiness is a human emotion’ dodge, but Spock simply echoes, “we are,” meeting Jim’s eyes briefly before turning back to Winona.

“Well good, ” Winona says. “Now  _ I’ll _ be happy if we can get out of here. Lunch before we go to the venue?”

“Sounds good,” Jim says, leading Winona by the arm toward the glass doors to the station, which open out into a busy downtown street, people rushing past as if taking advantage of the momentary sunshine. “There’s a nice Italian place down the road...”

 

* * *

 

It’s a little surreal, Jim thinks over lunch. Or maybe it’s a  _ lot _ surreal. Spock tucked into a booth beside Jim, chatting happily (as far as Jim can tell) over plates piled high with pasta — chatting with Jim’s  _ mother _ . And he’s doing well, asking her questions about farm life and Jim’s childhood (as Jim told him such questions might be expected) and giving her those soft Spock-smiles whenever she says something meant to make him laugh.

Jim spends nearly the entire meal with his chin in his hand, head tilted so he can watch Spock speak and gesture conservatively with his fork, or so he can meet Spock’s eyes each time Spock glances his way.

If Jim weren’t more prone to nightmares, he’d feel like he was dreaming.

After lunch, they head back to Starfleet headquarters to take a walk through the ceremony hall where the wedding will be tomorrow evening. Jim makes a joke about its similarity (and proximity) to where he and Spock met, the disciplinary hall right down the corridor. Winona seems to find that funny, but the reminder makes Spock go a little quiet. Jim understands why — even the good memories from those frantic few days are bad memories.

It’s only after that that they make their way to meet up with Sarek, though they remain out in the courtyard instead of braving the crowds inside. Jim has had quite enough of train and shuttle stations these last few days.

They find a place to wait off to the side of the large station doors, Winona and Spock talking about something Jim hasn’t even kind of been paying attention to. But that’s alright; they stopped paying attention to him almost an hour ago, too.

It’s a rare sunny day, and Jim takes the opportunity to look out over the courtyard from their slight vantage point up the stairs. It feels like he’s staring down a corn maze back in Iowa, with those tall hedges and their leaves waving lazily in the breeze, walling off paths between headquarters’ main center, the residential wing, the station and Starfleet Academy. There’s something nostalgic about this place. All of Starfleet, really. Reminds him of being a plucky little cadet, hacking programs, antagonizing professors, sleeping with anyone who looked at him twice... 

And now he’s getting married tomorrow. Time does fly. 

He smiles to himself, turning his attention however casually back to his companions as he keeps the station doors in sight. Sarek should be coming out any minute now.

“I agree,” Spock is saying, sitting turned toward Winona on the bench, hands in his lap. “That is an entirely unreasonable request. If Jeanne wishes to establish a book club, it is only appropriate that she be the one to host it.”

“ _Thank_ _you_ ,” Winona says exasperatedly, “and that’s what I damn well told her. ‘If you’re going to force us to read Hemingway, you’re making the fucking finger food.’”

Spock’s lips quirk, and he glances to Jim, a light in his eyes. “I believe I am beginning to see where Jim inherited his confrontational nature.”

Winona laughs, and though the joke is at Jim’s expense, he laughs too. This  _ may _ be a dream, another part of his impossible fantasy, but damn does it feel good.

At that moment, Jim catches a dark shape out of the corner of his eye, approaching them from the wide doors. He turns toward it, picking out Sarek’s deep brown robes immediately among the brightly colored Starfleet uniforms and travelers in their chrome and glitter.

“Ambassador,” Jim greets to get Sarek’s attention, and Spock and Winona both turn to him, standing from their respective seats. Jim is the first to raise the ta’al, as Spock instructed him to, but Sarek lifts it as he approaches as well. His fingers spread far more gracefully than Jim’s.

“Captain Kirk,” Sarek greets, joining their little party out of the way of the crowd. “Spock. And you are Winona Kirk?”

“The one and only,” Winona says. “It’s so great to meet you. I hope we have a chance to get to know each other a little today.”  
“We certainly will,” Sarek says, “as our sons have a meeting to attend in 20.3 minutes and we will be left to our own devices. Is this correct, Spock?”  
He looks to Spock, who nods, and Jim realizes in that moment that he may have forgotten something in the hustle to arrange the wedding.

Winona’s head turns to him. Slowly. “You  _ what _ ? On the day before your wedding?” She sounds incredulous.

“You did not tell your mother?” Spock asks, and Jim shrinks under the combined gaze of his three companions. 

“Well,” Jim says, “I thought a tour of the city with Uhura and Bones would be a nice surprise?”

Winona looks unimpressed. “Sorry, mom,” Jim concedes, feeling more like a twelve-year-old than a grown and accomplished starship captain. “The  _ Excelsior _ launches tomorrow, and I guess all senior officers need to review a protocol update, if they’re on-planet. It won’t take too long, right?” He looks to Spock here to back him up, though Spock knows as well as he does how long these protocol meetings can last.

“It will likely be evening before we return,” Spock says, undercutting Jim’s attempt to assuage his mom’s worries. Winona lets out a dramatic sigh.

But when Jim gives her the puppy eyes that he prays still work, she smiles reluctantly. “Alright, well, I’ll be happy to spend time with the good Ambassador here, and meet your best man, finally.”

“Great,” Jim says. “Do you mind, Ambassador Sarek?”

Sarek’s hands are in his sleeves and he looks entirely unperturbed. “It is no matter. And, James, if you are to be my son-in-law, you may simply call me Sarek.”

Jim’s eyes widen. He hadn’t really expected that. A sham marriage means sham relations, after all. But he supposes Sarek might be saying it for Winona’s sake, to protect the lie. He wouldn’t have expected it, but Vulcans are prone to surprising him. Spock is proof of that. 

“Thank you, Sarek,” Jim says, and Sarek raises a hand as if waving away his gratitude.

“I understand I have been quite cold to you in the past,” Sarek says unprompted, and Jim has to stop himself from admitting that Sarek had plenty of reason. “However,” Sarek continues, “you are the one my son has chosen. Therefore I will …” he pauses, “ _look_ _forward_ to getting to know you.”

Spock had said that Sarek would not reveal their secret, but Jim did not expect him to act as though their marriage were legitimate, even in front of Jim’s mom. He’s staring dumbfounded at Sarek, he’s sure, but thankfully he has a talent for regaining himself quickly. “That’s — I appreciate it,” Jim says.

“We should leave for our meeting,” Spock says pointedly. “Father, Winona, our friends will meet you here momentarily. I believe Nyota has planned activities to keep you pleasantly occupied until our return.”

“How’d you get them to agree to deal with us all afternoon?” Winona asks, elbowing Spock gently. Spock gives her a fond sort of look.

“They are pleased to assist in any way they can.”

“Including entertaining our neglected guests,” Jim adds with a smile.

Winona smiles back, and Spock touches Jim gently on the elbow. “Jim,” he says, and that’s all he needs to.

“Right. We’ll see you this evening if we aren’t too late, okay?”

Winona gives him a little wave, and Sarek moves to join her at the bench.

“Have fun at your meeting,” Winona says as they leave with their own hurried goodbyes.

They start the walk back to headquarters, Jim in good spirits, but admittedly still a little flummoxed.

“Can you believe your dad?” he asks once he’s sure they’re out of Vulcan earshot. “He was way nicer to me than I expected him to be.”

“He fully understands my reasons for marrying you,” Spock replies. “And he will support us.” 

Jim gives Spock a sideways look. He can’t put his finger on why, but it feels like there’s something Spock’s not telling him. “He won’t lie, though, right? He can’t?”

“He cannot,” Spock says, “but all Vulcans are capable of withholding the truth.”

Jim nods, “I can’t say I’m not glad to hear it. Just surprised. I thought …” he pauses, glances to Spock, and continues, “well, I thought after your mom, he might, I don’t know… Want you to find love?”

Spock is silent for a moment, but only a moment. “Like your mother wishes for you?” Jim glances away sheepishly, and Spock gives Jim a momentary smile. “She is very kind,” he continues gently.

“She is,” Jim agrees as they turn down the sidewalk that leads to headquarters’ main doors. “Nowadays, at least. I think she’s making up for lost time.”

Spock knows Jim’s history by now, after years of collecting information like breadcrumbs when Jim dares bring anything up. He knows how often Jim’s mother was off-planet when he was a kid. He knows about Frank, the stepfather whose abuses went unaddressed for far too many years, though Jim has never detailed those abuses to anyone. He knows Jim’s family has been fractured, and suffered another blow only two years ago when Jim’s brother, however estranged, was killed on Deneva. But Spock also knows not to ask Jim to talk about it. And Jim is grateful to him for that. 

“I know it’s kind of ridiculous,” Jim says quietly after a moment, “but part of me hopes that maybe the wedding will, oh, help? Mend a rift, I guess? This is the most interest she’s shown in my life in a while.”

“An unexpected benefit, then,” Spock says. Jim smiles at him, then turns his attention ahead, glad that Starfleet has given him a distraction from the day.

 

* * *

 

The meeting does take as long as Spock suggested, proving (though Jim doesn’t need the reminder) that Spock is usually right. By the time they leave the meeting room and head down the stairs, it’s already well past dinnertime. Luckily, a flurry of messages from Uhura and Bones from earlier in the afternoon suggest that they all had a good time touring the city, and Jim’s mom “forgot all about you, don't you worry.” The last message, from Uhura, says that she, Sarek and Winona had a lovely dinner at a restaurant on the Academy campus, and she dropped them back off at the residential building. While Jim is grateful, he can’t help feeling a little guilty.

“We should at least invite our folks to our room to catch up before we say goodnight,” Jim suggests as they walk quickly out the front doors of headquarters, circling round the sidewalk that skirts the building. “I know we have all day tomorrow, but you and I can’t see each other the day of the wedding. This is kind of our last shot to all get together.”

“I believe, Jim,” Spock says, “that we will have a lifetime of ‘shots’ if you and I are to be married.”

“You know what I mean,” Jim says with a laugh, elbowing him.

Spock’s indulgent smile is a nice reward, something warm and gentle that makes Jim beam. 

“I do,” Spock says, “and I believe it is logical for us to all spend some time together. Though I still do not understand why we cannot see each other before the wedding.”

“It’s tradition,” Jim reminds him. “Bad luck or something. You can't tell me Vulcans don't have any weird traditions.”

Spock nods, conceding. “You are correct. I cannot tell you that.”

Jim laughs, placing a hand on Spock’s back as much out of a desire to touch him as it is to guide him down the path. Maybe more the former, if he cares to be honest with himself. 

They make their way through the courtyard in the cool gray light of evening, passing walls of geometric hedges and overflowing planters of sea lavender and drooping tulips. Jim is about to suggest running upstairs to take the sheets off the couch before they call their parents to join them, but a familiar voice reaches his ears just as he opens his mouth to speak.

It’s his mother’s laugh, clear as day, right behind the hedges springing from white planters at his side.

“I never expected this either, if I’m being honest,” she says with a chuckle in her voice. “But I didn’t know Nyota used to be Spock’s girlfriend! Did you like her?”

“It is illogical to express preference, but she would have made as suitable a match as any human.” That’s Sarek. Are the two of them going for an evening stroll? They must have hit it off. Jim grabs Spock’s elbow, slowing him. Spock narrows his eyes at Jim, but Jim puts a finger to his lips, giving Spock a playful smile. Eavesdropping on their parents like a couple of mischievous teenagers — it’s kind of sweet, Jim thinks.

“Dare I ask if you think my Jimmy’s a ‘suitable match?’” Winona asks playfully.

Sarek takes a moment to respond, and Spock tugs Jim forward, nodding pointedly down the path. Jim shakes his head, holding tight to Spock’s arm.

“What I think is inconsequential,” Sarek says. “I have come to understand that matters of emotion are out of my personal control. Spock loves James quite dearly, as dearly as any parent may hope. Provided James feels similarly, I can make no objection. Nor would I care to.”

The rest of the world goes quiet around them, and if Winona responds then Jim doesn’t hear her. He doesn’t hear anything, in fact — doesn’t  _ feel _ anything but the clench of Spock’s arm under his hand; the sudden, rapid pound of his own heart. 

_ Vulcans can’t lie. _

He raises his eyes to Spock’s, unsure what emotion his own expression might convey, but positive he can’t see any trace of feeling in Spock’s. Where moments ago Spock was warm, open, he’s now as solid and stoic as Jim has ever seen him. Before Jim can even think to speak, or to move them to a place where they _ can _ speak, Spock yanks his arm out of Jim’s hold and moves swiftly down the path. Jim follows without thinking, running after him like a lost puppy, unable to shout his name lest he attract attention from their parents beyond the hedges.

He catches up to Spock just inside the doorway of the lobby, where he takes hold of his shoulder to turn him around. “Spock, wait!” he practically shouts, drawing the eyes of the few residents at the lobby’s information kiosk, and those sitting in armchairs by the big screen in the seating area.

Spock turns at the touch of Jim’s hand. “I do not believe we should have this conversation here,” he says quietly, and Jim knows in his heart that he should agree, but  _ all he wants to do _ is have this conversation.

He swallows, nods, and takes Spock’s wrist, guiding him toward the blessedly empty lift. As the doors close behind them, he releases Spock and presses the number for their floor, trying to organize his thoughts into some kind of logical succession, but instead a question tumbles from his lips. 

“Did you tell your dad that you love me?” Jim asks, the word ‘love’ sounding strange on his lips, as though it knows it’s not supposed to belong to Spock — to any emotion Spock may have toward Jim.

“I did,” Spock says. He has his hands tucked behind his back like he does when he’s on duty, when he’s facing Jim’s frustrations about a mission or challenging Jim on the finer points of a plan.

Jim just stares at him dumbfounded for a moment, wondering if he can articulate any of the myriad emotions rising in him at that admission. The lift slows to a stop, and Spock reaches past Jim, laying his hand on the scanner. 

When the door slides open, Spock practically shoves Jim aside as if to escape into the room at large. It takes Jim a moment to follow.

“I thought you said — you  _ said _ you told Sarek the truth. About the wedding. About why you’re marrying me.” He’s watching Spock’s clipped and purposeful movements as Spock strides toward the couch and strips the sheet from its cushions. They’d been sleeping separately, Spock on the couch, Jim in the bed, and it wouldn’t do to shatter the illusion for their families.

The  _ illusion _ . The illusion that they are together. In love. 

Spock straightens, sheet in his hand, and seems to sigh. “I lied,” he admits, the word falling like a gavel. All this time Spock has simply been ‘exaggerating,’ or ‘witholding truths.’ He hasn’t admitted  _ once _ to lying. He said he  _ couldn’t. _

“You lied,” Jim repeats. “To me? Or to Sarek?” 

Spock doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his back to Jim, his shoulders clenching. “I told Sarek I loved you because I knew he would not approve of the real reason for our arrangement,” he finally says. 

“So then why did you lie to  _ me _ about it?” Jim asks, unsure if he’s digging for the truth or digging for what he hopes is the truth. Is it possible Spock didn’t lie to either of them? Is it possible — could Jim be so lucky — that Spock has been hiding his own feelings from Jim, just as Jim has from Spock? “All this time I thought Sarek knew the whole story — I could’ve said something to him!”

Spock begins to fold the sheet out of Jim’s view, as if purposely hiding his face. “It was a lapse in judgement on my part,” Spock says.

Spock never lapses.

Jim moves closer to him, circles the coffee table between the couch and the desk so he can at least stand at Spock’s side, rather than behind him. All he can make out of Spock’s expression is the hard, angled look he wears when he doesn’t want to reveal anything. What on Earth could he be so afraid of?

“Spock,” Jim says gently, and Spock sets the folded sheet on the corner of the couch, pulling himself up to his full height and facing Jim, almost reluctantly. “Can you tell me the truth?”

Jim wants to say that he will be honest, too. But he doesn’t think he has the breath in his lungs to speak.

“The truth as I understand it,” Spock says, gaze holding Jim’s, “which you yourself have made quite clear, is that we will enter into a marital union so that I may continue to serve on the  _ Enterprise _ ; we value each other as colleagues and friends, but nothing more; there is no romantic component to our relationship, nor any expectation of one, nor any desire for one.” Spock pauses, takes a breath. “If my understanding of the truth is incongruent with your own,” Spock continues, “and if there is any aspect of what I have just said with which you disagree, I request that you tell me now.” He lifts his eyes to Jim’s once more, something in them that’s almost pleading. “If our desires conflict, we should not be married tomorrow.”

Jim can’t quite bring himself to say a word. Outside the window over the bed, the sun has fully set, and the room feels dark, gray, lifeless. 

“I —” he stops, forcing himself to think this through before he says anything. He could tell Spock that it's not the truth, none of it. He  _ could _ tell Spock that he loves him. But if Spock doesn’t accept his confession, doesn’t love him in return — if Spock is embarrassed by him, only marrying him to satisfy a loophole — then Jim could lose Spock. Forever.

Even Captain James Tiberius Kirk isn't crazy enough to risk a life without Spock forever. Their friendship may be the only thing he's unwilling to gamble. “So you aren't in love with me then?” Jim asks, and his voice sounds weak, not like him at all. 

Spock regards him silently for a moment. “No more than you are in love with me,” he says, a note of caution in his tone. 

The words hang in the air between them. 

“Right,” Jim says after a moment, “good,” speaking as if someone else has taken the piloting controls of his body, his voice, his face, which he knows is trying to wrestle itself into a false smile. “This whole thing could’ve been awkward, otherwise. I mean, not that it isn’t already.”

Spock straightens. “You’re right, of course,” he says simply, which doesn’t give Jim much to jump off of. He’s left, staring at the man he loves, in a dark silence that he feels creeping into his bones.

“Well,” Jim finally says, “I suppose — it might be too late, you know? To invite our parents up? What do you say we just, ah, call it a night?”

“If that is what you desire.”

It isn’t, but Jim can’t have what he really wants. He’ll have to settle for what he needs. To leave Spock, absorb the unfounded disappointment in the confirmation of everything he already knew to be true. He doesn't want Spock to read that disappointment in his face, doesn't want to say anything that may expose it. 

“Well, the sooner we get to bed, the sooner we can put this whole wedding behind us, right?” Jim asks with false cheer. “I know we’ll both be glad when it’s over.”

Spock nods, glances away. “You will be staying with Doctor McCoy tonight?” he asks, the question breaking through Jim’s haze. 

“Uh, yeah,” Jim says. “Yeah. Are you all set for tomorrow?”

“We will have all day to prepare,” Spock replies, his tone direct and short in a way that gives Jim pause. “I will be ready.”

“Last chance to bow out,” Jim reminds him with the ghost of a joke in his voice, though insincere. He just wants this to feel like it usually does, him and Spock, the kind of easy comfort of familiarity and respect and — and affection. But it doesn’t feel like it usually does. He wonders if it ever will again. “Going once,” he offers, “going twice…”

“I —” Spock pauses. “I will be ready,” he says again, and their eyes lock. 

Jim stares into those eyes for a moment, wishing he could see all the intricate processes taking place behind them. “I will, too,” Jim says.

If there’s even a part of Spock that wants to return Jim’s awkward smile, he does not. Instead, he says “good night, Jim,” clear as any dismissal. And Jim wonders as he mutters his own goodbye and turns toward the lift if he  _ will _ be ready after all. To live a lifetime of pained silence at Spock’s side, husband only in name and privilege, otherwise distant from the person he wants, more than anything in the universe, to be close to.


	5. The Pronouncement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Now:**

**Now:**

Jim’s staring at his feet, his limbs shaking, and he feels their eyes on him — his mother’s, Sarek’s and Bones’. He’s exhausted, every ounce of his energy drained into what he’s just told them, and he hopes they might allow him his solitude now. He’s earned it, after all. It’s the only thing he’s earned.

But they don’t speak just yet. It’s as if they’re waiting for something, for Jim to explain what could have happened — when just last night Jim and Spock had agreed to be married. _Just last night_ they had ensured that their reasons were the same. Did Spock find out, somehow, about Jim’s feelings? Is that why Spock left?

More likely, he left because Jim bullied him into this arrangement. Jim forced him to go against his nature. Of course Spock wouldn't want to marry someone who could treat him like that.

“I see,” Sarek says after a moment, when it’s clear that Jim is not about to speak. “So you were marrying my son to trick Starfleet.”

When Jim looks up to him, he sees Winona’s stricken look before he sees anything else. So he closes his eyes, puts his head in his hand. “Yeah,” he says, “but it wasn’t just about that. It was never just about that.” In the brief silence that follows, he tries to force himself to breathe. “I was such an idiot. I kept thinking if we had some logical reason to get together, he’d warm up eventually, maybe — God, I’m so fucking stupid. I thought…”

“You thought he might love you someday,” Winona fills in, and Jim feels her approach, kneeling in front of him and putting a hand on his knee. He lowers his hand and looks into her eyes, knowing his own are swimming.

“Each time I have spoken to Spock on the subject of the wedding,” Sarek says cautiously, as every eye in the room turns his way, “he has told me he loves you. If he has neglected to inform you, perhaps it is indelicate to say, but ... I did not tell Amanda often enough, either.”

There is something soft in Sarek’s expression for the first time since Jim has known him. Jim’s chest aches for more reasons than his own heartbreak.

“Thank you, Sarek,” he says. “But if I thought that were true, I’d be tearing down buildings looking for him. He doesn’t love me. I’ve known that for five years. I guess the only difference here is, well,” he lets out a choke that isn't quite a laugh or a sob, but some other, ugly beast, “now I know he never will.”

Sarek’s expression turns somewhat pitying, and Jim can’t even bring himself to meet his own mother’s eyes. He leans back on the couch.

“Alright, I’m going to get Jim settled in,” Bones says, moving forward. “If y’all wouldn’t mind…”

“Of course,” Winona says, standing. “I’m — I’m so sorry, Jimmy.”

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Jim says miserably. “For lying. It was… It was a stupid plan, wasn't it?”

Winona gives him a tight, brief smile. “We’re all a little stupid in love,” she says, and turns reluctantly to the lift. Sarek’s eyes linger on him for a minute, but he follows Winona soon enough.

Jim waits for the sound of the lift doors to close behind them before leaning back against the couch once more.

“Got a message from Uhura while you were talking,” Bones says. “She’s on her way.”

“Did she find him?” Jim asks, sitting straight up as though lightning has just shot through his spine.

Bones’ expression is tight. “I don’t know, but don’t —”

“Don’t get my hopes up,” Jim finishes for him. “Trust me. I know that now.”

Carefully, Bones steps forward, coming to settle beside Jim on the couch, but Jim doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s worried about what he’ll see in them. Judgement, maybe. Or, worse, compassion.

“Thanks,” Jim says, “for not saying ‘I told you so.’”

“Oh, come on, Jim.” Bones slings his arm around Jim’s shoulders, bringing him in for an awkward hug. Jim’s throat tightens and he pulls in a shaky breath, tucking his nose into Bones’ shirt. “What kinda asshat do you think I am? You just got your heart broken, kid. You’re allowed to feel it.”

“Even if it was avoidable?” Jim mumbles, voice muffled by the fabric against his lips.

“Especially if it was avoidable,” Bones says. “‘Cause I know you, and I know you’re gonna pile a hefty load of guilt on top of everything else, now it’s ended up this way.”

Bones shifts slightly, digging his free hand into the pocket of his slacks. Jim cracks open his eyes, just as Bones pulls out a small, black velvet box. Wordlessly, he hands it to Jim.

Steeling himself, fingers trembling, Jim takes the box — what would have been their rings — and curls it into his fist. He squeezes it slightly, just for a moment, and slips it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Thanks,” he says, and Bones’ chest rises and falls in a short sigh. He doesn’t speak again after that. Neither of them do. Bones just keeps his arm round Jim’s shoulders, tightening his hold every once in a while, as if to let Jim know he’s still there. Trying to hold it together just a little longer, Jim closes his eyes and lets himself be held.

It’s only a few minutes before a ding comes from the lift, and Jim manages to lift his head to see Uhura striding through the door. She’s still wearing her formal uniform — and a tight-eyed look, though it softens somewhat when she sees Jim tucked like a child under Bones’ arm.

Jim pulls himself from the embrace, wipes the corners of his eyes where tears keep threatening to fall, and straightens. It’s instinct more than necessity. He doesn’t like his crew to see him like this, even those closest to him.

“Uhura,” Jim greets lamely. “No luck, then?”

“No luck,” Uhura says, moving slowly into the living area. “I’m sorry, Jim. Last time I talked to him, he was committed to going through with this. I don’t know what happened.”

“I do,” Jim says. “He didn’t want to lie. And that’s all this would have been. Some damn, stupid lie.”

“Thanks for looking, Nyota,” Bones says, standing. “But I think you and me should leave Jimbo here alone.”

Uhura looks to Jim, and for some reason there’s confusion in the lines of her brows. “Are you okay, Jim?” She asks, and Bones tosses up his hands.

“Course he’s not,” he protests, and Jim shakes his head, looking away. Bones hisses his next words in a stage whisper, as if Jim wouldn’t hear him that way. “Boy just got his heart stamped on. Let’s leave him be.”

“What are you talking about?” Uhura says, glancing between Jim and Bones. Jim doesn’t look at her. “You just said it would’ve been a lie. Isn’t this a good thing? Not _ideal_ , maybe, but...”

Jim rests his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands. “That’s just it,” he says miserably. “It wasn’t a lie for me.”

A moment of silence follows, and Jim hears movement, probably Bones ushering Uhura back to the lift.

“Wait,” Uhura says, to both he and Bones, it seems. Jim takes a breath, forces himself to lift his eyes to her. “Wait, Jim. You’re… Are you in _love_ with him?” He can’t decipher the expression on her face. Everything feels cloudy, numb.

“Yeah,” he says, a little helplessly. “If that wasn’t obvious.”

“And you never told him.” Disbelief, he realizes. _That’s_ the expression. She’s staring disbelieving at him, and Jim feels hurt in spite of himself. Why is it so hard to believe? She loved Spock once, too.

“Of course I never told him,” he says, glancing around the room as though the reasons should be obvious, hidden in plain sight within the sheets they’d torn off the couch, or the bed where Spock had slept alone last night. “He was _this close_ to leaving, having his own ship — I wasn’t going to give him a reason to high-tail it. I wasn’t going to — to scare him off with these stupid feelings I can get past if I just —”

She tosses her hands in the air, letting out a frustrated groan. “Jim, you idiot. Of _course_ he ran off,” she practically shouts. “I’ve been telling him to for _days_.”

“You — you _what_?” Jim asks, something like anger shoving aside the sadness for a moment. He shoots to his feet, though he isn’t sure until he’s standing that his legs will even hold him.

“He’s been on the fence about the whole thing since you proposed,” Uhura says, “I kept telling him ‘if Jim doesn’t love you, you can’t put yourself through this.’”

“That’s what I told _Jim_ ,” Bones says. “Are you saying Spock—”

“No, there's no way. He can’t _love_ me,” Jim says desperately, moving toward her and stopping himself short of gripping her by the shoulders. “He — he told me he didn’t. You know as well as I do that he didn’t want this. Not the way...”

_Not the way I did._

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, _Jim_ , you said the same thing, didn’t you? You’ve been lying to Starfleet this whole time; is it so hard to believe you’ve been lying to each other, too?”

Jim’s eyes widen. He had thought Spock couldn’t lie, but Spock admitted to it. Just last night, Spock _admitted_ to lying, but never admitted exactly what he had lied _about_. He had danced around it, forced the subject back on Jim. How could Jim have missed what that could have meant? It was all a test, to see if Jim felt the same.

And Jim had failed it.

As the revelation crashes like a tsunami over him, Jim feels his heart reawaken. His damn, illogical heart, numb since he stood alone outside that crowded hall and realized Spock wasn’t coming. And now it’s beating as if it’s trying to play every drum in a drumline. “He loves me?” he asks, even as the rational part of his brain is screaming that he can't get his hopes up again. It's screaming at him to temper his expectations, to prepare for the worst. But Jim has to hope. He always does. It's who he is.

Uhura closes the last distance between them, and places a hand on his shoulder. Her thumb strokes him through the fabric of his T-shirt, reassuring, comforting, as if trying to give him the confidence that’s usually so easily within his reach. “You should ask Spock that question,” she says.

Spock.

“We have to find him,” Jim says, breaking from her hold and pacing past her toward the lift, though he doesn’t know where he would go. “We have to be married by _midnight_ or he’s off to Captain the fucking _Intrepid_.”

“Uhura’s been looking all damn night,” Bones puts in, “and if anyone knew —”

“I —” Uhura interrupts, but pauses, glancing down to the floor. “If I’m being honest, I didn’t look very hard. I’m so sorry, Jim, I thought you didn’t love him, and I figured if he wanted to call it off then I wasn’t going to tear up Starfleet to find him.”

He wants to be mad, but he can’t. She was protecting Spock. And Jim gets that, even if she was protecting Spock from Jim, who would never hurt him — never again.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, striding up to her and taking her hands. “But please, Uhura, if you have any ideas…”

He knows his eyes must be wild and bloodshot, the bags under them heavy, but he can practically feel every tick of the clock counting down to their separation. He has to find Spock — has to tell him —

“Jim,” Uhura says, raising a hand to his arm. “He’s been in love with you for so long — _years_. Is there anywhere that’s, oh, special to you both? Where you met, maybe?”

“We met in the disciplinary hall, ” Jim says, “but there’s no way he’d hide from me right next door to the wedding.”

“Anywhere else?” She asks urgently, and Jim runs through a mental slideshow of five years of memories — every moment he feels might have any kind of import, any kind of weight.

“It’s all on _The Enterprise_ ,” Jim says, “or other planets. There’s nowhere—”

“Jim,” Bones says with a hidden eureka in his tone, and Jim turns to him, frantic for a clue. “That hearing mighta been the first time _you_ met Spock, but the pointy eared bastard saw you first.”

It takes less than the span of a heartbeat for it to click.

“The Kobayashi Maru,” Jim whispers. “Holy shit.”

 

* * *

 

The way ahead is dark, but the motion sensors capture his footfalls, turning lights on for him step by step as he runs headlong down the corridor. He hasn’t traversed this hall in more than five years — not since that disastrous day he decided to hack Spock’s program. Not since he beat that unwinnable test. But as he takes corners at a brisk sprint, growing hot in his jacket, he realizes he knows the way to this room by instinct, as if it’s a part of him. Because it’s where he met Spock, too, in his own way. It was the first time he came head-to-head with Spock’s logic, and won. There was pride in that, in spite of all that followed.

Sliding round the final corner on those slick floors, Jim takes the last few feet at a sprint and skids to a stop before the wide door. He slams his hand on the control panel on the wall, breath heaving as it flies open, a familiar swoosh of sound.

Inside, the dim blue glow of the simulation’s dormant lights draws him into the playhouse stage of a starship’s bridge. He puts a hand to his chest to slow the harsh breath stinging his lungs, and walks forward.

A figure is standing behind the captain’s chair, staring at the darkened viewscreen. He’s nothing but shadow and an outline of blue from this angle, but Jim knows it’s him. Jim has memorized the grace of Spock’s silhouette. Spock is wearing his civilian clothes, the dark tunic that drapes across his chest and shoulders. He never intended to come to the wedding.

“Spock,” Jim breathes, just as Spock turns to him, his wide eyes catching the ethereal light.

“Jim,” he says, more question than greeting. Jim’s not used to catching his unflappable friend off-guard, and he finds himself smiling with relief. It’s not too late. Not yet.

“I’m glad I found you,” Jim says, moving forward slow and deliberate so as not to scare Spock away, but Spock looks resigned to whatever Jim may have to say. His hand is resting, as it so often does, on the back of the captain’s chair.

“It seemed an appropriate place to stay for a while,” Spock says softly, glancing around before meeting Jim’s eyes once again. “A no-win scenario.”

“Like our wedding would have been?” Jim asks, and though he knows now why Spock left him, he still feels an instinctual ache in his chest.

“I apologize for making you wait,” Spock says, “I had planned to return to our shared quarters after midnight to provide an explanation.”

“After the deadline,” Jim says. “Why? And, please Spock. Tell me the truth this time.”

Spock stares at him, his fingers tightening on the back of the chair. After a moment, he turns back to the viewscreen, as if seeing something in it — some future that hadn’t come to pass. “Because I did not trust myself to say no, once I saw you,” he says softly. “I did not trust myself to avoid the same mistake I made in agreeing to this marriage in the first place, in continuing to go along with the ruse -- the mistake I made last night in convincing myself, and you, that I could bear this marriage for the sake of staying by your side. And I must not make that mistake again, Jim. We cannot be married. Nor do I believe we should continue to work together. Though it is illogical to wish … I _do_ wish we could.”

Jim takes another step forward, cautious, and Spock’s eyes shift sideways to him. “Last night, you said —”

“I said we could not be married if our desires conflict,” Spock interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Wanting to stay together is not enough upon which to build a marriage, despite what you may have said. We must, too, wish to stay together for the same reasons.”

“We do,” Jim says urgently, meeting Spock on the dais of the captain’s chair and putting his hand on the back of the seat, right beside Spock’s. “Spock, we _do_ . I’ve been an ass. I screwed it all up because I was _afraid_ of screwing up. I don’t want to lose you.”

“I understand,” Spock says in measured beats, always so damn careful with everything he says. If only one of them had dared to forego caution before now. “And I do not wish to leave the _Enterprise_ either. But that is not enough, Jim.”

“No,” Jim says, the word bursting out of him like a bird flying free of its cage. “Spock, listen to me. I’ve been lying to you this whole time.” Spock’s eyes widen, catching the gleam of the lights as he leans slightly back. “And I’m sorry,” Jim amends quickly, closing some of the distance between them. “I don’t think I can tell you _how_ sorry. We agreed to lie to Starfleet but we never agreed to lie to each other. And I have to tell you the truth or all this — everything you and me have…” he trails off, shaking his head.

“Jim,” Spock prompts cautiously, his name nearly a question.

“All of this, Spock,” Jim continues, “this stupid plan —  it wasn’t because you’re a good officer, and it wasn’t because you’re a good friend.” He takes a breath, and wonders in a flashing moment how this can be so easy to say, when it has been so hard for so long. “I don’t want to lose you because I love you,” he says. “And that’s the real truth. I love you, and I want to marry you. Now. Before midnight. Because I think you love me, too, and we’re both too smart to screw this up, right? Too brave? I’ve been a fucking coward, and I can’t be anymore. There’s too much at stake here, Spock. Not just your career, or your home. But me. You. _Us_ , even.”

He stares in breathless anticipation at the look on Spock’s face, shadowed in dark and blue like that night on the observation deck after they had announced their engagement to the crew. It’s as though Spock is trying to wrestle the hope from the shine of his eyes, to ensure it doesn’t show on his face in case he’s _wrong_ to hope. It’s an expression Jim himself has worn so many times.

“You love me,” Spock says, slow as if he’s trying to taste the words on his tongue.

“Of course I do,” Jim says, finding it in himself to smile. “Enough to live a celibate life as your fake husband just to keep you around, if that says anything. And I need to know right now if you feel the same. No more secrets.”

Spock moves forward with purpose, lifts a hand to Jim’s arm and squeezes, holding Jim’s gaze as though to be sure Jim doesn’t look away. Jim can’t even move, let alone tear his eyes from the earnest face of the man he loves.

“I loved you when I saw you on this bridge five years ago,” Spock says as if the truth of it pains him. “And, Jim, you must know I have loved you every day since. But I could not marry you, knowing you didn’t feel the same.”

Jim takes Spock’s hand in both of his, squeezes tight and watches a green flush spread beautifully over Spock’s cheeks. “I _do_ , you idiot.” he says softly, half-laughing. “I do.”

Spock seems frozen where he stands, his hand trembling gently in Jim’s own, staring into Jim’s eyes as if he can't quite believe what he’s hearing, what he’s seeing, in spite of all evidence. And all Jim wants is for Spock to understand. This is real.

So, holding tight to Spock’s hand, he sinks to one knee, as he should have done from the very beginning.

“Will you marry me?” Jim asks. “For real, this time?”

And because the question carries no pretense, no lie or excuse or fear or confusion, Jim knows he can trust the answer.

“Yes,” Spock says on a whisper, as though his lungs have been hollowed of breath, his fingers tightening around Jim’s own. “Of course, Jim. Of course.”

Jim jumps to his feet, and though he knows he can’t kiss Spock if he’s smiling this wide he decides he’s going to damn well try it anyway. Closing the distance between them, he presses hard against Spock’s stunned-still body and meets Spock’s lips without a second thought.

It takes a moment before Spock, seemingly realizing what’s happening, sinks against him, his free hand coming to the back of Jim’s head to pull him closer. Jim practically whimpers with relief, a sound he’d be embarrassed by if he could bring himself to care about anything but the fingers threading through his hair and the lips cloying soft and warm against his own.

Spock sighs into his mouth, as if releasing a breath he’s been holding all this time. Five years. Forever. And Jim breathes him in in turn, his heart pounding so hard he wonders that it doesn’t knock Spock off his feet.

“I am sorry,” Spock says against his lips, “I should have told you long ago.”

Jim chases those words with small kisses of forgiveness, stroking Spock’s cheek with his thumb. He presses his lips to the corner of Spock’s mouth, his cheek, his chin, his ear, his jaw, anywhere he can reach without putting even an inch of distance between them. “Me too,” he says, hoarse against Spock’s skin. “I can’t believe I almost lost you.” He places a final kiss to Spock’s lips, then pulls away to meet Spock’s eyes. There’s love in them so transparent he wonders how he never saw it before. “I won’t lose you, Spock,” he promises.

Spock’s eyes widen, the world seeming to rush back to him, intruding on their private peace. “Jim, it is nearly 10:30.”

“I know,” Jim says softly. “But you don’t think I would’ve run all this way without a plan, do you?” Spock’s eyebrow goes up, as if on cue, and Jim laughs. “I know, I know,” he says again, knowing, too, that Spock has good reason to be skeptical of his last-minute plans. “But this is a good one, trust me. I figure, we’re on Earth. We’re in California. And, well, it’s less than an hour by lightrail to Vegas.”

“Jim, you cannot be suggesting we employ Doctor McCoy’s friend at his —” Spock pauses over the words distastefully — “‘quickie chapel.’”

Jim’s grin widens. “I’m not suggesting it,” he says, “I’m saying it’s all we’ve got. C’mon, Spock, don’t you think our wedding should be as much of an adventure as the rest of our lives?”

Spock shakes his head slightly, though there’s a smile in the lines at the corners of his lips that makes Jim glow. “I am far more used to the kind of adventure that involves black holes and klingons,” he says, though the words are tender, soft, warm.

“Well what’s an adventure if you’re used to it?” Jim replies. “Trust me.”

And, because they _do_ trust each other, and always have, and always will, Spock follows where Jim leads him. Hand-in-hand, they leave the room that holds the phantom of their past mistakes, into the bright shine of the hallway lights.

A new beginning.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, Sarek just came back with the tickets. We’re going to be on the next train,” Winona’s voice crackles frantically over the comm, and Jim gives an apologetic look to Spock, holding the device between them so they can hear her. Outside the empty train car’s windows, the dark desert landscape is speeding past so quickly Jim can’t even take in the sight. Though he isn’t really paying attention. Since the moment they boarded the lightrail and thought to call their families, he’s been a little distracted.

Thankfully, he and Spock are the only passengers on board, so no one else has to listen to the ongoing battle over the comm channel.

“Don’t you dare get married without us,” Bones practically shouts, just as Uhura says over him, “you’re running out of time, so don’t wait on our account!”

Jim and Spock share a look, and Spock takes the communicator from Jim’s hand. “We will notify you upon our arrival,” he says into the speaker, ignoring the layered voices that respond. “Thank you all for your help and support. Spock out.”

He closes the device and hands it back to Jim, looking tired. He must be. They’ve both had one hell of a stressful day, but Jim finds it in himself to smile anyway. “‘Spock out?’” he teases. Spock smiles back in his own small way.

Leaning his head on Spock’s shoulder, Jim tucks his nose into the fabric of Spock’s shirt, breathing in the wonderful spice of his smell. The rail is the fastest mode of transportation they could take, short of beaming to Las Vegas, but still it feels like it’s taking forever.

Though if Jim is being honest with himself, he doesn’t mind the time to breathe, even as the clock on the wall of the train scrolls closer and closer to midnight. He takes Spock’s hand without worrying about whether or not the touch will be welcome, and Spock laces his fingers into Jim’s, tilting his nose into Jim’s hair. Jim closes his eyes, hums contentedly.

“I cannot help thinking we have progressed backwards,” Spock says quietly after a moment, his breath warm as it whisps against Jim’s hair. Jim can feel the beginnings of a smile in his lips. “Marriage is not usually the beginning of a relationship.”  
  
Jim considers this as he plays with Spock’s fingers, delighting in the simple pleasure of touch. “No,” he concedes with a little chuckle, “but if you consider all those landing parties and chess matches, we’ve really been dating for five years.”  
  
He pulls away to look at his fiancé, his heart singing at the smile in Spock's eyes. “In that case, five years _is_ a perfectly acceptable period for a courtship.”  
  
Jim laughs, nudging him. “But not a moment longer, right?”

Spock glances to the clock, as Jim has been doing every few minutes, his brows tightening. “And hopefully not too late.”

They see the lights of Las Vegas through the train window long before they actually make it to their platform. It’s a candy store display of colors — haloed oranges, glaring pinks and flashing rainbows in a dizzying array. The hot night causes waves to shimmer off the city’s asphalt, blurring some of the signs until they’re as shapeless and bright as the rest of the city, gleaming out from the dark.

The station closest to their destination lies only a couple blocks off the main strip, so when they pull in and the train slows to a halt, its as though they’ve ridden directly into the sunrise. Jim blinks against the neon glare and hops out of his seat, holding out his hand for Spock to take.

And, god, Spock does take it. Jim wonders if that’s ever going to stop feeling like a miracle.

They emerge onto an open-air platform far busier than the traincar itself was, and Jim instinctively pulls Spock close to him as they make their way together past the passengers clamoring to board their abandoned train. The crowd chatters loudly, some drunkenly, to each other, wearing clothes as bright as the lights around them. Feathers stuck in buns, garishly patterned suits — one group of men that looks to be a performance troupe is entirely decked out in neon yellow, with LED lights flashing at the collars of their shirts and the cuffs of their pants. They all shove past Jim and Spock as Jim tries to usher Spock toward the station’s exit without running into anyone.

Spock’s eyes are wide as he takes it all in, the shine of them reflecting bismuth pink from the hotel sign across the street, and Jim smiles. “You okay, Spock?” he asks.

“If I were not certain we were on Earth, I would mistake this place for Risa.”

Jim laughs as he pulls his communicator from his pocket, one hand holding tight to Spock’s sleeve, though he knows he’s in no danger of losing him. “Let’s just not have a repeat of last time we were there,” Jim says, finding the address Bones had sent him for Al’s Love Chapel. It’s only a few blocks away from the station they pulled into, though thankfully in the opposite direction from the worst of the Vegas crowd.

“Provided you remain sober, that will not be a challenge,” Spock assures him, and Jim snorts.

“No time to drink, anyway,” he says, though Spock likely doesn’t need the reminder. The clock in the corner of the communicator’s screen reads 11:23.

They take the steps to the street below quickly, and make their way onto the slightly less crowded sidewalk. The cars are moving at a snail’s pace on their way to and from the strip, two levels of stop-and-go traffic emitting loud honks every few seconds, with drivers shouting from car windows.

So Jim gestures away from the bright lights of the city and the clogged traffic, leading Spock onward. It’s only a few minutes later, when the sidewalk narrows and the sound of the city bustle fades, that Jim feels like he can breathe again.

The buildings surrounding them now are mostly darkened, brick apartments, reaching gray into the black sky, with occasional flickering neon signs pointing the way to restaurants, motels and bars, and yellow squares of light hanging above them where shadows of people move in their homes.

Gravel and pebbles of pulverized asphalt crunch under their feet as they move quickly down the sidewalk, bathed in the sodium glow of streetlights. “Alright,” Jim says when they can hear a little better. “It shouldn’t take us too long to get there. You nervous?” He nudges Spock with his shoulder as they walk, and Spock gives him a tired but warm smile.

“No,” Spock replies, as Jim knew he would, “but I am concerned about the venue. Should we not have checked Better Business Bureau ratings and customer reviews?”

“It’s okay if it’s not perfect,” Jim says, hoping Spock won’t be disappointed when they get there. Whatever it is, it won’t compare to the evening light filtering in through the tall windows of Starfleet’s grandest ceremonial hall. The buildings they’re passing on the sidewalk are all cracked concrete and brick, in the style of the last century, which was likely the last time they were renovated. Even the restaurants and motels and their own lights seem dimmer and less alive than the street they just came from. Jim can’t imagine Al’s Love Chapel is much nicer.

Spock looks over to him, his eyes serious. “You worked very hard to plan our wedding, and it was my cowardice that forced us to cancel,” he says. “It _should_ be as perfect as we can make it.”

Jim slows his steps, taking Spock by the elbow to turn him slightly. They stop for a moment, where the golden light of a nearby apartment complex shines a halo on Spock’s head. “I don’t care,” Jim says. “I’m marrying you. _That’s_ perfect. And I don’t care if it’s in a ceremony hall or if we have a band or even if anyone’s there to throw rice, or whatever. If all we’ve got is Al and his ‘Love Chapel,’ then, shit, alright. That’s what we’ll work with.”

Spock holds Jim’s eyes for just a moment, then reaches out and takes his hand. He stares down at the lace of their fingers, something soft in his eyes. With his free hand, Jim cups Spock’s cheek, leans up and presses a kiss to those lips.

Spock returns it, such subtle and gentle pressure that, nevertheless, makes Jim’s knees weak. When they pull away, Spock presses their foreheads together.

“And you do not mind being wed in a chapel? You’re Jewish,” Spock reminds him gently.

“You’re Vulcan,” Jim says in kind, and Spock’s lips curl. “This isn’t exactly traditional for either of us.”

Spock lets out a little huff, a breath Jim feels on his face, and Jim smiles. “So, Al’s it is.” Jim says. “Mom _did_ say we could be married in a trashcan as long as we’re happy. Are you happy?”

“Happiness is a human emotion,” Spock reminds Jim with a hint of irony.

Jim pulls away and grins. “ _And_?” he wheedles.

“And I am very happy with you, Jim.”

The sincerity of his voice, the strength with which he squeezes Jim’s hand, the delightful green flush to his face — if only they had some more time Jim would kiss him again, never stop kissing him. Marry him right here in the street with the shadows of silhouettes in windows as their witnesses.

But they don’t have time, and though Jim’s a captain he certainly doesn’t have the authority to marry them himself. So they have to keep moving. Now. If Jim can just tear his eyes away from Spock for ten goddamn seconds.

“Good,” Jim says when he can bring himself to speak again. “Then we’d better hurry.” They resume their trek down the narrow sidewalk, and Jim feels the time slipping away as if it’s a warp trail in their wake.

Luckily it’s only a few moments more before Spock lifts a finger, pointing toward a square of dimly glowing green against the black of night. “There,” he says. “I believe that is the place. If it is not, I suggest we utilize their services all the same.”

The sign reads ‘Al’s 24-hour Shotgun Weddings,’ but it might as well be the holy grail atop a pedestal, given how Jim’s heart fills immediately with hope — an almost religious-like reverence. He feels a grin spreading on his face as he tugs Spock along, shoving the communicator back into his pocket.

“Great,” he says. “Let’s hope there isn’t a wait.” Spock matches him step for step as they begin to jog toward their destination.

It’s a tiny church, Jim realizes as they get closer, with a sloping roof and a little steeple, where a bell sits gray as though it’s been collecting dust for decades. The ‘C’ is falling off the sign over the door, and the letters keep flickering off and on like strobe lights. But the lights are on inside — decrepit, but not abandoned.

“At least they’re open,” Jim says with a laugh as they make their way through the gate of the low chain link fence that circles the dusty yard. The cement path lies ahead, weeds climbing up through cracks, dirt dusted over it as though it’s barely been used in years. The doors they approach sit just a little off-kilter on their hinges, nothing but painted plywood decorated with an uneven carving of a cross.

Though it’s almost willfully idiotic to be optimistic at this point, Jim smiles to Spock all the same. “Maybe it’s nicer inside?”

Of course, it’s not.

The moment they push through those doors, the smell of mildew and alcohol seems to rise from the very fibers of the carpet under their feet. The chapel’s sepia lights dim and brighten at whim; cobwebs cast shadows at each corner of the room; pews face the dais at strange and inconsistent angles; and at the far end of the chapel a podium sits tilted on broken wheels. There’s no one around that Jim can see, and the clock is ticking.

Jim coughs past the choke of dust and odor, releasing Spock’s hand as he moves down the aisle. The carpet sticks to his shoes on every step.

“Where do you think Al is?” Jim asks on a whisper.

“Hello?” Spock calls, voice echoing slightly.

In the pew at Jim’s side, a dark shape jolts with a snort and a thunk, making Jim jump backwards into Spock’s chest, the breath scared right out of him.

“What?” The shape practically shouts, and Jim realizes it's a _man_ , struggling to his feet as his legs tangle awkwardly in the folds of his long black robe. “Who are you? What do you want?” he snaps, rising to his feet.

It’s not just a man. It’s a _priest._

Al (for who else could this be but the man himself?) stands with a wobble in his step, straightens his robes, shoves his glasses up his nose, and takes a good look at them as they regard him in turn. He’s got an unruly head of white hair with a bald spot creeping over his crown, and his hands are liver-spotted with age. Judging by the red tint to his cheeks, he’s probably the source of that pungent scent of booze.

Spock grips Jim’s shoulders, steadying him from his momentary shock.

“Father Al, I presume,” Spock says, the name sounding quaint in his sophisticated voice, and serving to break both Jim and their priest out of a shared reverie.

“Yes?” Al says, but a light seems to come on above his head before they can respond. To Jim’s relief, a friendly smile blooms on Al’s face. “Yes! Customers? Hello! Look at you! Such handsome young — men? A Vulcan! Well, are you here to be married?” Jim opens his mouth to respond, but Al seems to assume the answer. “Wonderful, simply wonderful. Love! Marriage! What a fantastic thing. Greatest thing you’ll ever know. Take it from me, boys. I’ve been married eight times myself. Congratulations, congratulations. And welcome to Al’s Love Chapel. And, yes, I am Al, purveyor of the finest 24-hour marriage service in Las Vegas.”

“You _did_ come highly recommended. Or, well, at least recommended,” Jim says, and Spock strokes his shoulders slightly before releasing him.

“If you might oblige us, Father Al,” Spock says, coming to stand beside Jim. “We are in quite a bit of a hurry.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Al says, waving them away. “I can be quick. I once got 100 couples hitched in an hour, take it from me, boys!”

“Can you perform a wedding in 10.35 minutes?” Spock asks, and Jim casts a little smile at him, nudging him slightly with his elbow.

Al’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “That’s, ah, very exact?” At the look Spock gives him, he plasters a smile back onto his lips. “But yes, of course! Let me turn on a few more lights…”

“Actually,” Jim says, glancing around the dingy room, “I’ve always wanted an outdoor wedding, haven’t I, Spock?”

“You have made no mention of such a thing,” Spock says, “but I would not advise either of us remain in this room for very long.”

“Why’s that?” Al asks, seemingly affronted. Jim glances around the dusty pews and the floor spotted with untold stains.

“Allergies,” he replies, hoping that’s all he’ll have to say.

Al’s giving them a thin-eyed look, but he shrugs, seeming to decide the business is worth the offense. “Well alright then. And don’t you worry, we do outdoor weddings all the time! Now let me, ah, find my books here. Excuse me, it _has_ been a while.” He ducks back into the pew, ass in the air, presumably searching for something that fell out of his pocket as he slept.

“I’ll bet it has,” Jim mutters to Spock, rewarded by Spock’s gentle smile.

“We will wait outside, Father,” Spock says, pinching Jim’s sleeve to guide him out the door. Jim follows as Al waves a dismissive hand above the pew.

“Yes, yes, be right there!”

They make it back into the comparatively fresh air of the hot Las Vegas evening, and Jim takes a long breath. “How long now?” he asks, turning to Spock and taking his hand.

“9.16 minutes,” Spock replies.

Jim swallows, nods, tries to come up with something flippant to say that might make Spock think he’s not as nervous as he is. But before he can say a word Spock’s hand is on Jim’s waist, his other curling around Jim’s back. And, without Jim even having to ask, Spock pulls him close, wraps him in his warm embrace. Somehow, Spock always knows what Jim needs. Right now, he just needs this. A reminder that they’re here together, and this is how they’re going to stay.

Jim’s fingers curl into Spock’s tunic. “I love you,” he says, voice muffled where he’s got his face smushed into Spock’s shoulder. “I’m glad we’re here.”

Spock noses into Jim’s hair. “As am I, ashayam. Though, perhaps we may organize a more suitable ceremony someday.”

Snorting, Jim pulls away. “Alright,” he says, “but this time we do it on our terms. Maybe we can host it on the _Enterprise_?”

“After you raised so many concerns to the admirals regarding holding ‘the wedding of your dreams’ on a starship?” Spock seems genuinely surprised, which makes Jim laugh.

“That was all a bluff,” Jim admits. “Honestly I can’t imagine the ‘wedding of my dreams’ being anywhere else. Well—” He glances around, taking in the dark street, the red flicker of light from the chapel’s sign. “Okay,” he concedes. “This comes pretty close.”

Spock nearly laughs, Jim can see it in him, and Jim pulls him back in for another long kiss. He can focus, now, on all the little, beautiful things about the way Spock holds him. The finger curling into his belt loop, the warm hand spread against his back, the breath in the chest that rises and falls against his own, the heartbeat that Jim can feel against his stomach. And though he’s never been more sober in his life, he feels as drunk as he did the night he proposed, completely consumed by the intoxication of Spock’s affection.

After only a few moments, the plywood doors creak open again Jim reluctantly pulls himself from Spock’s embrace. Al emerges from the chapel with a PADD tucked under his arm, and what Jim assumes is a bible clutched in his hand.

“No witnesses this evening, boys?” He asks, and Jim shares a glance with Spock.

“Well, they’re on their way,” Jim says. “But —”

“But you’re in a hurry, yes, you’ve made that pretty clear. Well, then I guess we’ll get on with it.” He hands the PADD to Spock first. “Sign your names there.”

They do, quickly, and Jim hands it back, sharing an impatient look with Spock. Al scans the PADD, mouthing the impossible-to-pronounce syllables of Spock’s first name. “So James Kirk and S— Sch — ah —”

“Spock will do,” Spock says.

“Spock? Good, well, I can pronounce _that_.” he chuckles. “James and Spock, to be joined in holy matrimony. And what an evening for a wedding, boys. You chose a beautiful night for the happiest —”

“Please,” Spock interrupts, thankfully before Jim can interject more rudely. “If you could —”

“Hurry?” Al finishes somewhat snippily. “Yes, thank you! God, you two might learn a little bit about romance.”

Jim scoffs. “We’re very romantic,” he protests. “Or, I think we _will_ be romantic.”

“I certainly plan to be,” Spock says as warm and weighty as if they’re the most important words he’s ever uttered. Jim’s grin spreads wide over his face, and for a moment he doesn’t even care that he’s staring like a lovesick schoolboy into his fiancé’s eyes.

“Alright,” Al says impatiently as he sets the PADD on the ground beside him. “You’ve proven your point. Now, shall we?”

“Right, yeah,” Jim says, shaking his head to clear it of its romantic cobwebs. He takes both of Spock’s hands in his own, squeezing gently before giving Al a nod of permission. “Alright. Punch it, Al.”

Al begins with a sigh, then: “Dearly Beloved, we — our very small party —” he chuckles, “have gathered here today to celebrate the union of James Tiberius Kirk — Oh!” He pauses, and both Jim and Spock look to him with barely contained frustration. “Oh, you’re _that_ James Kirk! Starfleet Captain! And Commander Spock! I thought I recognized the two of you! From the news! You must know my friend Leonard, ah, McCalvy? He’s a doctor, or so he always said.”

Spock gives him a pleading look. “Father,” he says urgently.

“Right, right,” Al says with a little huff of disappointment. “I suppose there will be time for romance _and_ pleasantries later.” He clears his throat. “James Tiberius Kirk and Mister Spock. I assume you want me to skip all of the fluffy bits?”

“Definitely,” Jim says, then looks to Spock. “Sorry, babe, but —”

“ _Okay then_ ,” Al says pointedly, as if they’re the ones wasting his time, now. “Do you James Kirk take, uh, _Spock,_ to be your lawfully wedded husband.”

“Damn straight I do,” Jim says, giving Spock a wink.

“And, Spock, do you take James Kirk to be _your_ lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” Spock says softly, “emphatically.” There’s a tiny smile in his lips, a look of joy in his eyes, and Jim — whose entire life has been a series of fortunate accidents — doesn’t think he’s ever been so lucky.

Al sighs. “Okay, so, rings?”

Though it hurts to do so, Jim releases Spock’s hands and finds the box in the pocket of his jeans, right where he shoved it earlier.

“Here,” he says, fumbling it open. The twin bands gleam in the light of the streetlamps, signifying so much in their emptiness. At least, he knows, they won’t be empty for long.

He pulls them out of their box, shoves it back into his jean pocket, and hands one ring to Spock, who takes it with the most gentle brush of their fingers. His cheeks are green, Jim notices, a subtle blush in the yellow light. The simple realization makes Jim’s smile widen almost painfully.

“Very well, then. Place the rings on each others’ fingers as you repeat after me,” Al says, as though he’s said the words a thousand times. “Spock, you first. With this ring, I thee wed.”

“With this ring,” Spock says softly, “I thee wed.”

Spock takes Jim’s hand, holds his finger out, and slips the ring on tentatively, as if he thinks Jim will actually pull away now. His fingertips trace the band as he pushes it into place, a simple and reverent touch that makes Jim’s heart sing. Spock looks like he can hardly believe it, though it’s illogical to question it now.

Jim understands. What mere weeks ago felt like an impossible fantasy is now standing before him, holding his hand, making a commitment to love him. And, now, Jim may do the same.

“James,” Al says, breaking his reverie, “now you. With this ring —”

“With this ring,” Jim interrupts, “I thee wed.”

And, as he promised, he slips the ring onto Spock’s finger, looking into Spock’s eyes all the while. And though his fantasy these last ten days has focused so intently on this moment, on the image of Spock wearing his ring, he doesn’t even need to see it on Spock’s hand, not really. He sees it in Spock’s face. Relief. Fulfillment.

“Alright, boys,” Al says, and Jim thinks he should probably look at him, but he can’t. He’s focused on Spock, on the way their fingers lace as if on instinct as they step closer together. “With, what, two minutes to go? I now pronounce you wed. You can kiss each other, if you think you have the time.”

Jim doesn’t register the moody tone. All he sees is Spock’s smile before he wraps his arms around his neck and rises up against his chest, finding Spock’s lips.

And though they _are_ in a hurry, and though the deadline tics closer moment by moment, Jim knows by the way Spock is holding him, kissing him with all the force of years-suppressed passion, that they are out of danger now. Nothing can pull them apart. Not Starfleet nor the vast expanse of the universe — not even themselves.

Jim laughs against Spock’s lips, something giddy that bursts from him and breaks their kiss, but Spock is nearly laughing, too. All the heartache of the last few days, months, _years_ melts away, and when Jim pulls back, he opens his eyes to the sight of Spock, his first officer, his friend, his husband. Spock looks exhausted (they both must) but he's happy.

Jim promises to himself in that moment that he will ensure Spock only ever has cause for happiness.

“Congratulations,” Al says, and in that word the world comes rushing back — the dingy street, the dusty pathway under their shoes, and the chapel’s steeple spearing the dark night. “Oh, I almost forgot!” Al fishes a small device from his pocket. As he presses its button, the dusty bell in the steeple creaks itself into movement, tolling loudly into the otherwise silent desert air.

Jim grins, meeting Spock’s eyes.

“Jim,” Spock says, and Jim isn’t sure if he expects Spock to tell him he loves him, or to say he’s glad they did this, or to request they leave good ol’ Al alone, but he doesn’t expect what Spock actually says: “The paperwork.”

Jim laughs, full and gleeful as he releases Spock with a kiss to his cheek. The reminder is so ridiculously out of place, so quintessentially Spock, and Jim realizes that he can look forward to a lifetime of Spock reminding him about paperwork. Somehow, he’s never been happier.

Al’s holding out the PADD for them already, having clearly anticipated their haste, and Jim takes the offered stylus, signing his name before handing it to his husband. His _husband_.

“Now,” Al says as Spock signs, “if you want to send the completed marriage license to yourselves there’s a handy box in the corner of the screen there —”

“Send it to Admiral Komack,” Jim interrupts. “We can, ah, ask him to forward it to us later.”

Spock gives him a little, sideways smile before doing as he is asked, pressing “send” just as the clock in the corner of the PADD switches to 12:00.

Another bell chimes somewhere in the distance, joined shortly by another — clock towers all over the city marking the hour and echoing through the air. Jim lets out a sigh of relief and feels his whole body melt.

“We did it,” he says.

“We certainly did,” Al replies, though the relief wasn’t really meant for him. “Fastest wedding I’ve ever done, let me tell you!”

“When we arrived,” Spock says, “you claimed to have performed 100 weddings in an hour.”

“A _small_ exaggeration,” Al replies, completely unruffled about being caught in a lie. He shuffles his bible back into his pocket and tucks the PADD under his arm. “But looks like I could do it if I put my mind to it. So what do you say, boys — want a commemorative photo?”

Of course, they can’t pass that up. Jim gives Spock an almost childlike look of excitement, and Spock returns a small smile. “That would be agreeable, yes,” Spock says.

So Al takes his PADD and snaps their picture in front of the chapel, with the glowing sign broken behind them, the dark of night and the far-off neon glow of the city coloring the scene as if shot through warped glass. But in the photo their figures are fully visible — Spock’s arm around Jim’s waist, Jim’s eyes closed in a sudden burst of giddy laughter, their rings glinting bright in the camera’s faulty flash. Jim asks Al to send them each a copy, and one to Admiral Komack while they’re at it.

And it’s done, there in the yard of that dingy old chapel. They’re married, and their priest, it seems, wants to get back to his nap.

“I wish you many happy years together, boys,” Al says as they take each others’ hands, turning toward the gate of the chain link fence. “Remember — vow renewals are free if you want to come back in ten years.”

Jim and Spock exchange a look, and maybe it’s a testament to how exhausted he is that Jim thinks it might actually be a good idea to return to Al’s someday. A reminder, if nothing else, of how long it took to get them here. And maybe a surprise to the good priest, who probably doesn’t get a lot of takers on that offer.

“We’ll consider it,” Jim says with a laugh. “Thanks, Father.”

As Al waves them goodbye, Jim and Spock make their way down the street and eventually out of sight of the chapel, back toward the train station where their friends and family will be arriving any moment. Spock’s holding Jim’s hand as if he never wants to let go, and Jim leans into him. It doesn’t matter if they move slowly, now. They’ve got a lifetime to absorb this feeling. Together, finally, in spite of everything.

The walk back to the strip doesn’t feel as dark as it did on the way to the chapel. Jim doesn’t know why. Somehow the lights shine brighter from high-up windows and empty bar patios, and even his heart feels lighter. Though that may be because he can feel the cool ring on Spock’s finger, pressed against his hand.

“I am sorry our guests missed the wedding,” Spock says as they walk, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

Jim snorts. “They’re probably even sorrier. We’ll have to make it up to mom someday. But we’ll meet them at the station, and I’m sure we can find plenty of places on the strip for an impromptu wedding reception.”

Spock’s nose wrinkles slightly in distaste. “Perhaps in choosing a venue for the celebration, we may be less hasty?”

Jim laughs, nudges Spock with his shoulder. “Only the best,” he assures him. “Then, well, what next Mister Spock?”

Spock considers the question as if it hadn’t occurred to him. Jim doesn’t blame him. He’s had so little time to think about the future since he was sure that Spock wouldn’t be a part of it. Now that their futures are inexorably intertwined, it’s _all_ he wants to think about.

“I believe a honeymoon _is_ traditional,” Spock says after a moment.

With a huff of a laugh, Jim meets Spock’s eyes, then glances pointedly up to the sky. He can’t see the stars with the light pollution coming off the city, but he knows he won't be away from them for long. Like he and Spock, a life in space has always just felt inevitable. A journey they’ll be taking together. “A honeymoon,” Jim echoes. “What do you say to another five-year mission past the frontier?”

When he looks back to Spock, Spock is smiling, cheeks green, his dark eyes turned toward Jim.

“There is no guarantee we will be assigned another long mission,” Spock reminds him, but Jim just scoffs, waves his hand as if waving away the thought.

“It’s the least they can do for us. Remember, I’m entitled to use the ‘Earth’s savoirs’ excuse eleven more times to get what I want.” He pauses, squeezes Spock’s hand. “If that’s what you want,  too, I mean.”

They stop there again in the middle of the empty sidewalk, Spock pulling Jim around to face him. Jim does, a look of bemused joy blooming on his face.

“I can think of nothing I want more,” Spock says.

They stand there in the golden glow of streetlight circles, looking into each others’ eyes and seeing only the honest truth of love in each others’ expressions. Spock is wearing Jim’s ring, the stars shine somewhere high above them where their home awaits, and — knowing that Spock will be by his side whatever else may come — Jim allows himself a moment of pure, perfect peace.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/140945656@N04/42788647152/in/photostream/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> [Come talk to me on Tumblr if you want!](http://onedamnminuteadmiral.tumblr.com/)


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